The Favoured Fall
by uneveneyeliner
Summary: Renaissance AU. Everything changes for Clary when the King of Idris acknowledges his daughter. She suddenly finds herself the centrepiece of his most ambitious plan: her royal marriage. Worse, she is now a contender for the throne of a country on the brink of religious and civil war. A situation only complicated by the arrival of golden-eyed young diplomat with a troubled past...
1. Prologue

**_Prologue_**

If she spun fast enough she could make everything a blur. In fact she could happily spend her days whirling like this until the blue of the sky and the green of the grass blended together and she grew so dizzy that there was no choice but to shut her eyes and blanket her now hazy world with black. As another gasped giggle escaped her lips the little girl swayed to a halt, head tilted to the heavens. Where she stood in the still summer air her turquoise skirts and cascade of copper curls were the brightest splashes of colour against the pale summer roses.

The child was only still for a moment before her eyes flew open to seek out another game, only to have her plans for mischief interrupted by the familiar shrill voice of her nurse, calling too close for comfort. Startled, the girl hastily snatched in another breath, yanked her skirts away from her feet and bolted.

She knew all too well what would follow capture: a sharp telling off from nurse, then a sharp telling off from Mother and most likely an interminable round of prayers before being sent back to the school room.

Fortunately she was small enough and swift enough to avoid such reprimands.

The sharp thorns of the rosebushes clutched at her skin and hair and soil smeared the hem of her dress as she struggled through the rose bushes and onto yet another of her father's many neatly trimmed lawns.

Little feet pumped furiously as she made her escape as best she could, weaving over sturdy grit paths and soft grass until she was forced to a skidded halt by an unfamiliar stone wall.

Shooting a few desperate glances around while her heart battered uselessly against her ribs the girl was finally forced to admit that she did not know where she was. Really that was not her fault. Her father had so many estates with elaborate gardens like these in each one, so how could she possibly be expected to know her way around all of them?

Cheeks flushed with indignation and exertion, the girl reluctantly leaned against the fountain allowing the cold of the stone to seep through her skirts. Lost though she might be, her eyes were clear and dry as she scanned her surroundings. She was no weak ninny who fell to tears at the slightest provocation. She knew her lady mother never cried.

Glancing mournfully down at the ruined material of her skirts she noted an unsightly red smudge on the ground by her foot. Dark ruby, wine most likely. She wondered belatedly if that stained her clothes too. Just as she began to really consider her predicament, a sharp caw bit through her thoughts.

Behind her, merely a few feet off, the huge, gleaming back shape of a crow nestled in the hedge. Beady charcoal eyes surveyed her as the wretched bird flapped its wings.

She realised all of a sudden that the world had gone quite silent; no other birds sang and there was no noise save for her own measured breaths and the faint rustle of wind disturbed leaves. The crow's ragged beak stretched open in another caw as it fluttered to the ground and out of sight. Irritably the little girl skirted round the fountain and made to shoo it away only to stop dead in her tracks. Colour drained her cheeks and eyes blanked in horror as she froze, unable to tear her gaze away.

Smeared across the ground from where she stood were streaks of blood. At the end of the macabre trail, flung out from under the nearest trimmed hedge was a chalk pale hand, lying motionless against the fresh green of the shrubbery. Triumphant the crow lowered its head and began to peck the prone fingers.

All the little girl could do was scream.


	2. Inevitable

**_A/N: And so the tale begins! I'll try to avoid any glaring historical inaccuracies but as you will soon discover I am literally a potato so I'm bound to screw up, plus I'm no historian just someone who has always been interested by the period, saw a potential fix and went for it. Have mercy, this is pretty much the first thing I've written and shared. Also I have to admit the characters are not mine and may be a tad OC in places but that's because I am not Cassandra Clare (cries), they have had different experiences to Cassie's characters and live in a another era so they could not be the same people. They are still complete dorks/ social outcasts though, I needed to relate. Hope you enjoy! Without further ado..._**

* * *

 _PART ONE: PAWNS (1536-1537)_

 _"_ _Love sought is good, but given unsought is better_ _"_ **\- -(Shakespeare- Twelfth night)**

* * *

 _Chapter 1: Inevitable_

 ** _Convent of the Holy Cross, Broceland Forest Idris: April 1536_**

Pale, neat little hands flew over dark damask as Clary smoothed down the skirt of her dress yet again. Even though she knew Rebecca had brushed it down impeccably she was nervous, and when she got anxious she always needed to find something for her hands to do. What she really longed for was to draw, to lose herself in the colours and comforting rasp of the pencil and paint over canvas and to indulge in the satisfaction of seeing her innermost imaginings translated into sight. Any distraction from this interminable waiting would be welcome. Unfortunately all her art supplies had long since been packed away.

Agitation continuing to gnaw at her, she shot to her feet and began to pace the floors of the small room that had been hers for almost sixteen years, now plucked bare of every sign of her existence. Well, everything except the long limbed boy who slumped in by the window, plucking idly at the strings of his lute.

Technically men were strictly prohibited from the convent grounds but Simon was more of a boy and his family lived in the village, so a blind eye was generally turned to his presence as long as he stayed out of the way of the sisters and novices. For the past decade the duo had constantly romped around the surrounding fields and forest seeking games and adventures to occupy their mischief. the result of such years of friendship being he was most adept at creeping in and out of her rooms. Consequently the two of them were quite inseparable, Clary's mother and the nuns had long since given up on trying to keep the two of them apart, in truth they had never really tried.

"I don't believe pacing is any remedy" Simon now stated dryly, regarding her with familiar brown eyes from under his fringe. Clary shot her best friend an unamused look and opened her mouth to reply, then reconsidered and returned to silence.

Her recent irritation was becoming unbearable she supposed, but she could not help but feel anything aside from the racing anxiety that set her heart banging at her ribs and a wretched trembling through her limbs. Not since yesterday morning when she had found her mother hunched over a letter with tear-dampened cheeks.

 _The raised voices had pulled Clary to a halt outside the closed door. "I have no choice!" The sound of an unfamiliar man raising his voice was enough for her to stop in her tracks with sharp curiosity._

 _"Of course you have a choice! And you've made it! But I must tell you this is not the way to go about it Luke! They'll tear her apart!"_

 _"You know they won't. She's a survivor Jocelyn, you taught her that."_

 _Her mother's only response was what sounded like a muffled groan. "She isn't ready."_

 _"Jocelyn. I believe she was rather born ready" the man called Luke insisted, a wry edge to his voice. "This isn't something you could have ever avoided. You like to pretend you make your own moves and choose your battles but we both know that isn't the case."_

 _"Oh I do" Jocelyn retorted, "And I will. But you are right in one respect, she can't win the game if she doesn't start playing." The ominous sentence was too much for Clary who abruptly shoved open the door, not wanting to hear anymore._

 _Jocelyn's usual place by the fire had been the only element of normalcy as Clary pushed her way into the bland, stone-walled room devoid of all furniture (bar the two chipped wooden chairs crouching by a sooty fireplace) that served as her mother's makeshift parlour. Her absence at mass that morning had been nothing remarkable, Jocelyn was not one for religious observance even if she did live amongst nuns, but Clary had been stunned to find her still in her nightgown with an old shawl tossed over her shoulders and long red curls falling unattended down her back. "Mother? Are you well?" Clary inquired, falling to her knees and grasping at her mother's thin white fingers, which were clamped determinedly around a crumpled piece of paper._

 _She threw a half concerned, half curious glance at the intruder who had taken up a stance by the window, staring out across the convent grounds as though he was watching for something. He likely failed to espy anything of interest, the courtyard beneath the ledge held only squat buildings of more stark grey stone and the odd sister scurrying about her daily duties in her monochrome garb. Everything here was grey on black or white._

 _Upon realising her scrutiny he turned to face her, initially surveying her in return just as intensely with a strange expression of expectancy and then something in his light blue eyes that could have been sorrow. Before she really had time to consider any of that his rather handsome features smoothed to a reassuring smile, but Clary could still detect the tension._

 _Men were forbidden and the appearance of one as well dressed as this Luke was a hundred miles from a good sign. Her whole life her mother had gone to great lengths to keep the high walls of the convent between Clary and any real aspect of the outer world. She had also instilled in her daughter her mistrust of strangers, especially those who dressed like nobles._

 _Then Clary realised that Jocelyn had fixed her eyes on her daughter and although the jade gaze locked on her face was distinctly red rimmed it was nonetheless frozen with icy purpose. "You have been summoned to court" her mother had stated bluntly, in a steady yet hoarse voice. Jocelyn's free hand had then shot out to grasp her only daughter's face. "I am sorry Clary. I cannot protect you from this. I had hoped, God knows I had hoped it would be otherwise, that they could- that he could forget you but-" She broke off and swallowed back her distress. "I suppose I should be grateful that they let you stay with me so long."_

 _"_ _They?" Clary questioned, struggling to comprehend the consequences of the wrinkled letter Jocelyn clung to. Out of the corner of her eye she noted its snapped seal bore what appeared to be a crowned angel. She couldn't see from here, but she knew that a closer investigation would reveal that it brandished a cup and a sword. A familiar seal, though not one Clary had ever actually seen on a letter before. Unfortunately that meant that she knew the answer she was about to receive._

 _"_ _The Clave and King's Council" her mother clarified roughly. For a long moment neither of them spoke and the fire snapped petulantly in the silence, shooting out some meagre glowing sparks which rattled onto the cold flagstone floor, beaming momentarily before lapsing into nothing inches from Clary's spreading skirts._

 _"You know why I took you away Clary?"_

 _Clary nodded, unable to contain an edge of bitterness as she replied, "To protect me."_

 _"Yes." A little defiance crept into her mother's tone as her eyes finally shifted from Clary to the room's other occupant. The two adults shared a single long look in silence before her mother unexpectedly flushed and diverted her gaze, staring instead into the grate, perhaps seeing her forgotten crown or the shimmering towers of the Glass City in the darting flames._

 _"That court is no place for anyone, let alone a child. I wish to God I had taken you further, but I didn't dare. The child of Idris' king in a foreign kingdom? That would have beyond begging for trouble. I may as well have slit both our throats."_

 _Clary's stomach clenched involuntarily at the last statement. She hated times like these; when her mother retreated so completely and blindly into her heavy plots. The clear terror behind Jocelyn's steely pragmatism was partially unnerving and partially frustrating. Clary had yet to see any reason for her to live her life like this, on the verge of panic at every waking moment and breathing futile lament for decisions that had been made long ago. Surely all this was nothing beyond the ramblings of a paranoid woman. Yes, this was the runaway queen, but their flight had ended ten years ago and this convent had always been their place of sanctuary. Frankly Clary could not see what it was Jocelyn felt she was still running from._

 _Mother and daughter's identical stares met._

 _"You are not a child anymore."_

 _Suddenly her mother's slim hands felt heavy in Clary's and she felt the urge to pull away and flee back outside to the peace of childhood, but the chill of the bare floor seemed to hold her in place like a fly trapped in amber, helpless to do aught but keep her eyes locked on Jocelyn's even as she dreaded her next words. "You're of a marriageable age now Clary."_

 _"Please Mother, no!" Clary finally managed to choke out a plea, yet it was feeble even to her own ears._

 _Jocelyn shook her head impatiently, dark copper tresses shifting over her shoulders. "I can take you away from that throne but I cannot deny who you are. The blood that flows in your veins. You are a Morgenstern. A Royal. That means that you have a duty to your family and your people."_ .

 _Clary struggled to her feet, numbness fading to horror. "I have never laid eyes on either my family or my people! You ensured that!" She could feel the thickening of her throat and heaviness behind her eyes that warned of growing tears, "There's no reason I should give my life away for either of them!"_ .

 _Her mother shot to her feet then too, surprisingly ferocious in her nightclothes. "There is every reason! And you will grow to see it! When you reach that city, when you see what your family and your capital have become you will see that the reason I have kept you away from it all is the very same reason you must embrace it!"_

 _Clary froze in a stunned silence until Jocelyn drew her hands rapidly over her cheeks and softened her tone. "You are not like them Clary. I have not raised you to be like them. You have to go to court. I have sheltered you for as long as I can but this has always been your future. It is inevitable. You are the last hope Idris has."_

 _It was then that the forgotten third party decided to decisively clear his throat and step between the two women._

 _"Lucian Graymark at your service, Princess." He accompanied his introduction with a swift, low bow; the first she'd ever received. "May I present the plans for your journey?"_

And so Clary found herself the following day with only her mother's confusing and disconcerting words to occupy her mind as she waited for her escort. That and Simon's woeful music. She wondered briefly if the suddenness of Lucian's presence and the haste of her departure was all part of the king's insurance against his absent wife deciding to flee with her a second time. Mind jerking back to the present she thought she detected a disturbance on the still spring air drifting through the narrow glass window.

"Do you hear that?" she demanded, spinning to face her companion. Simon's brow furrowed but she already passed him in a few rapid steps to the glass. The view from her window remained as unchanged as ever, the small herb garden beneath her window leaking soothingly sweet smells into her chamber and the wall separating it from the rolling greens stretching out as far as the darker smudge of the forest in the distance. Straining her ears Clary leaned out, she knew they would be approaching from the road on the opposite side of the building but she could definitely hear the distinct rumble of hoof beats. Heat pounding in time she backed away from the window. She would be no silly maid dangling out the window hoping for a glimpse of her rescue party.

Simon had straightened up beside her, reluctantly lowering his instrument to the ground. Emitting a unenthusiastic sigh he turned to Clary.

Abruptly flustered, Clary spun around the room hand flitting up to ensure the unaccustomed weight of the French hood on her head was still straight, and impatiently brushing a few stray curls over her shoulders and down her back. "How do I look?"

Simon answered the question with a scoff

Clary ignored him, continuing to flap as she ran over the outlined routine. The guests would be received by her mother and in due course she would be presented and then they would depart. Her fussing hand finally floated down and rested on the comforting chill of the rope of pearls circling her neck, a parting gift from her mother. As was all of the jewellery packed in her chest; her mother had insisted she left with all that remained of her jewels stating Clary would have more need of them. Until today her only possession that had remotely resembled jewellery had been the amber rosary beads that were now tucked into her pocket.

"Everything's going to change now, isn't it?" Simon asked quietly.

Clary shook her head, "It already has."

* * *

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

 ** _Princewater Palace, Alicante, April 1536_**

The rhythmic scraping of the penny rolling against the rough wood as it circled the table was strangely soothing to Jace. He let it clatter flat on its own before sweeping it up and set it rolling again.

"Must you do that incessantly?" With what he knew to be an infuriatingly slow reaction , he turned to face his companion's demand. Alec stood just a little way off, arms crossed against his black doublet and hot blue eyes boring into his.

"Do what?" he sighed eventually.

"That!" his friend cried flinging his arm in gesture to the table between them. "With the coin!" In response the small golden disk rattled against the smooth wood.

"What else would I be doing?" Jace asked, running his hand through his tousled blond hair.

"There are countless other things you could be doing!" Alec snapped in reply, "Preparing how you are going to address His Majesty ought to be foremost in your mind!"

"All I need to is bow and smile to His Majesty. That will see him suitably charmed and endeared to our cause. People like me when I smile. The letters of introduction should take care of the rest." He set the penny rolling once again. Then his gaze flickered back to the other boy's.

"You have the letters of introduction don't you?"

Alec scowled, "Why would I have the letters of introduction? This is _your_ Embassy!"

Jace grinned, "Which is why _you_ have the letters of introduction."

Tutting, his friend flung the documents on the table between them.

"Ah where would I be without you, my old friend?"

"Doubtless in this city's most disreputable tavern, unconscious in a pool of your own vomit."

"Well I hardly think that is fair. You have based this theory on the assumption that I managed to survive the voyage without you. It is far more probable I would still be at home unconscious in a pool of my own vomit."

Alec rolled his eyes and turned away, pacing back towards the window. "What is taking them so long?"

Jace shot another glance at the determinedly sealed door. "Perhaps she is very ugly."

Alec sighed, "It is hardly of consequence."

"But it is plausible they would seek to delay our inevitable horror upon laying eyes on her if she were indeed very ugly."

"If we do ever get to lay eyes on her" Alec muttered pacing past.

Sighing, Jace stretched out his stiff legs, noting that the slivers of sunlight stealing into the room were gradually retreating across the floorboards back toward the venetian glass window as the day slid past. They'd been led in here hours ago, outside of the King's presence chamber and told that His Grace would see them shortly.

At least the glass city was as beautiful as they'd been promised, even if it's princess seemed likely to disappoint. The shining towers, neatly winding streets, pretty arching bridges and canals sparkling in the sun made the Idrisian capital seem more like a painting than a real city. Unfortunately Jace doubted he would have much time to explore it, he was here for a purpose.

Impatiently he dropped his hand to the comfortably cool hilt of the knife at his waist. He would consider freeing the blade of his dagger from its sheath and marking the table before him like he would have done at home in his boredom, but he suspected that would not be well received given the furniture was royal property.

At long last, like the gates of heaven, the heavy doors swung open to reveal a narrow faced, sombrely attired middle aged man scurrying towards them. "Forgive me gentlemen but I-" He broke off as his eyes fell on the duo before him. "I-I was told the new French Ambassador waited without?" Jace raised his hand in a little wave.

The stunned silence hung in the room for a terrible moment until Alec recollected his court manners.

"Good day sir."

"Good day" their new acquaintance said faintly. He shuffled at some papers he held nervously.

"Monsieur Herondale?" He looked at Alec hopefully.

"No, that would be me" Jace interrupted to rescue his friend. He rose and gave a little bow before fixing an expectant look on the man opposite him.

"Master Secretary Pangborn" he replied, sketching a quick bow and raising a kerchief to his dribbling nose. "You are welcome to Idris, gentlemen."

"I thank you for the warm welcome" Jace couldn't prevent a touch of sarcasm dripping into his voice.

"I trust you have the necessary papers?" Wordlessly Jace plucked the documents back off the table and passed them to Pangborn, trying to stifle his stinging resentment. How had he expected to be received?

"Thank you. I shall see to it they reach His Majesty." He paused for a long moment as though considering what to say next. "Forgive me sir, but I must express my surprise at King Francois sending someone quite as… youthful as yourself to represent him in such a delicate matter. Surely you lack the experience required? "

"It is my master's concern as to whom represents him. And I can assure you Master Secretary I am more than capable. Can I ask when we might see His Majesty?" Pangborn swallowed, clearly unimpressed by being spoken to in such a manner by someone 'as youthful' as Jace.

"His Majesty has many pressing matters to attend to today. I will give him your letters and you will be summoned at his pleasure." Pangborn announced lifting his chin pompously, as though his pleasure and King Valentine's were one and the same. Perhaps it was, given that the papers needed to begin proceedings were now being clutched to his chest. They were indeed reliant on Pangborn's pleasure to see the King, Jace realised too late as the Secretary swept out of the room sniffling in his crisp, sensible robes and the doors swung shut once again behind him.

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

Once upon a time Clary had assured herself that she was prepared for her duties as Princess of Idris. God knew that she had spent enough time in her mother's household being drilled in the court manners and etiquette; on how to stand and smile and speak in the company of various court members. Yet her experiences in Alicante had thus far proved to be far from her expectations.

In the absence of her mother she held the position of first lady at court and as such had the honour of occupying the queen's chambers. Recently refurnished in the very finest and most current style, she had been told. So at least she could enjoy the luxury of the sweeping damask curtains and expensive tapestries that made up her gilded prison.

All her days to date had been spent closeted in her rooms, released only for a mass said in her private chapel and perhaps few sparse hours in which she was permitted to wander a section of the gardens. Not that she was ready to live out the rest of her days in the public eye just yet, but she couldn't ignore the lingering feeling that something was amiss. Each time she heard the snap of the shutting lock on the door to her privy chambers she found herself wondering whether it was designed to keep intruders out, or her and her new ladies in.

Of course a Princess had to have her own household. In theory she had been raised to oversee the running of such a household, but in reality she was beyond uncomfortable with the company of a whole troupe of ladies; all of them practised courtiers who knew how to dress and behave so much better than she did. The notion of her being their mistress was laughable, when clearly they were in place to instruct _her_ as to how best fill the role required of her. Day after day of watching them glide around in their perfectly tailored gowns and assured beauty only made her feel more keenly the ache of her own inadequacy. Although their immaculate manners would never permit any criticism to be voiced she nonetheless felt their judgements scorching her turned back, or thinly veiled contempt in a polite: "perhaps not like that Your Highness".

In all her previous years of living practically alone she had never been as lonely as she was now with the constant company of a small selection of nobly born girls her age.

The nights were never much better. Each evening she would lay in the silken covers of her huge bed, staring up at the heavy green and gold curtains that surrounded her, eyes fixed on the ornately embroidered tester that proudly bore the cup and sword bearing angel that was the royal arms of Idris and willed herself to stay strong. The longing for home and its comforts was present all the time, as shards of glass digging into her heart; but it was in these darkest hours of her day that she felt it most keenly. Alone in the gloom save for the maid who was required to sleep in the trestle bed beside her she never could bring herself to quell the rising sobs any longer, and ended each day weeping quietly into the corner of her pillow until her sorrow gave way to sleep. The maid made no moves to comfort her, though she had to be aware of the tears, and for that Clary was eternally grateful. She would not have been able to bear the shallow condolences of a stranger while she longed for her mother.

She must seem wretchedly ungrateful, she reflected now. A new life of finery and royal prestige was more than most girls dared dream of. She tried to remind herself to be strong, that she was not only a Morgenstern but also her mother's daughter and therefore no weakling, but that became increasing difficult the longer she spent trapped between Alicante's glowering towers.

However today she was sure she'd reached the pinnacle of suffering, standing stoically through the artist's appraisal. His thin, pale eyes peered at her over his canvas and then came the sharp scratch of the charcoal as he outlined her figure. Trying to stand still in a way that would make every eligible bachelor in Christendom want to marry her was no small task. Especially not when she was sewn into a gown of rose coloured silk and damask that would surely have looked gorgeous on someone else, with the icy weight of a jewelled crucifix digging into the bare flesh of her chest and arms buried under the velvet and gold trimmed burden of fashionably trailing sleeves. Clasping her clammy fingers around the small prayer book in her hands she tried to make a supreme effort to be agreeable.

She had a very good idea of how she was supposed to look: docile without appearing stupid, devout (hence the prayer book and jewellery) but not too nun like, and above all desirable but not wanton. In short she and Master Cartwright's paintbrush had the trial of creating a portrait to prove that Clary was a fit mate for any Prince.

She just hoped her boredom was not too obvious. Aimlessly her eyes drifted to the hunched form of Cartwright. He had long ago abandoned his hat and rolled his sleeves out of the way. God, how she longed to be on the other side of the canvas. Although, upon reflection perhaps not this canvas. In the chamber's pale spring lighting the poor man looked a touch sickly and Clary began to suspect that the pressure was getting to him. Given the fact his hair had thinned out to almost nothing he couldn't be new to his trade, but a botched portrait of the King's daughter botched the King's plans and therefore nothing less than a masterpiece would suffice.

Would that she could have interceded on the fellow's behalf. But of course, that would require contact with the King.

For most her life her father had been a presence rather than a person, from the snatches of her muddled childhood memories she could only recall a huge hulking figure with cold eyes and clipped words. When she was younger she knew she had lived at court with him, but previous to her arrival here she had no memory of a real conversation or encounter with King Valentine. She knew the disinterest was far from remarkable, a daughter being overlooked was hardly exceptional, even if she was a royal. Boys were heirs and thus worth plenty of attention, but a girl could quite easily be ignored until she finally became of use through securing an alliance and husband.

Naive as it was, she hadn't been able to keep herself from hoping it would be different with _her_ father, that after having been apart from her for so many years he would want to see her and spend time with her. Unfortunately she'd been in Alicante for almost a fortnight now and he had only summoned her once to cast a brief eye over her, telling her that he expected her to be the epitome of maidenhood and good breeding and that he had commissioned this portrait.

Then of course there was her brother. She had little to go on when it came to him as well, although there were some garbled pictures from the royal nursery. There had been a little 'magic' lantern they both loved, which looked like any other until it was lit in a darkened room and spun to reveal images from their favourite stories bouncing around the walls. She could still picture the little boy with the bright gold hair in the spinning shadows, echoing her delighted laughter.

Pointedly ignoring the babble of laughter from her female attendants, Clary drew back to the present and blinked the ferocious glare of the sun out of her eyes, wondering if she would ever be able to bend her back again after having been stitched into a corset so long. At home she had been free enough and flat chested enough to avoid donning such a contraption. But this was home now, and apparently Princesses wore corsets. .

She was momentarily distracted from the travail of breathing by a commotion of voices outside the sealed door. Moments later a man in royal livery stepped inside and Clary automatically twisted her head to look at him.

"Your Highness!" Cartwright yelled in horror, flinging down his utensils with exasperation.

"Beg pardon" she gasped apologetically catching the eye of the newcomer. He swept a hasty bow and cleared his throat. "Your Highness I bring a gift from His Majesty."

He extended his arms to her, offering a small black package. Instinctively Clary moved forward to take it, then realised her mistake as the man shifted backwards uncertainly. Struggling to contain her blush, Clary halted her progress and tried to cool her expression. _Fool!_ She mentally reprimanded herself. How she must have looked, bolting for any small token of favour like a greedy commoner! Princesses did not snatch for gifts, they calmly waited for them to be formally presented.

No matter how desperate she was to know the contents of the box her father had sent to her, how desperate she was to catch her father's attention in any way, she could not afford to let the perfect princess façade slip for even a heartbeat like that. She needed to show them she was no green girl seeing the real world for the first time, albeit that was exactly what she was.

Thankfully she managed to salvage something of her self-possession with what she prayed was an politely moderate nod at the steward, who unlatched the box with a swift click and flicked the lid up to reveal a small fortune of jewels, gathered in a gold edged sapphire pendant and nestled happily on its mantle of black velvet. Clary's breath caught in her throat as she peered at the solid, glimmering blue depths, dazedly regarding the first jewel she had ever owned and the first she would ever wear that had not belonged to her mother first.

Then the gift was snapped out of view by the closing lid and it withdrew only to be replaced by a folded piece of parchment. It finally occurred to her that she would indeed have to wear it, and likely soon. Sure enough, the letter unfolded to reveal that this present was far from a casual trinket of affection. Her wonder deflated as her eyes scanned the neat, practised handwriting of a royal clerk. It so happened that all the necessary envoys had arrived and her official presentation to the court had been scheduled. Clary lifted her head and let her frantically pattering heart sink to resignation.

The game had begun.

 _-0000000000000000-_

* * *

"Extraordinary. Have you really managed to ruin the embassy before the embassy even starts? I think you have." Alec complained with a glare, tossing another log on the fire in their new apartments.

"I didn't see you being too helpful" Jace flung back, taking another swig of wine.

Alec flushed darkly, "You were the one who insulted him"

"Only because he insulted me first!"

"By insinuating you two were children! An inconceivable notion given the way you're behaving now." Isabelle's dark eyes glittered as they shifted between the two boys, who had lapsed into a sullen silence. "So you've doomed our endeavour to failure" She continued with smug satisfaction; "By God, I don't know why I ever worried when I knew they sending you as the diplomatic party." Alec's sister dropped her head back to her sewing with a soft laugh.

"It isn't over yet" Alec insisted, glowering at his sibling.

Isabelle scoffed, tossing her head back so that the ruby at her throat blinked in the firelight. "Stop. Stop it both of you. You can't in all faith tell me you agree with this plan." Jace noted that her proud mask had slipped as she turned to the two older boys.

"The plan" Jace said lowering his cup, "Is to negotiate the Dauphin's marriage."

"And then to negotiate mine" Isabelle hissed, flinging her needlework away. "Well if father thinks packing me off to Idris is going to make me marry he can reconsider."

"Father just wants to do what's best for you" Alec insisted, crouching beside his sister's chair and placing his hand over hers, "And it's his duty to see your future secured through finding you a good husband." He paused and sighed slightly, lifting his hand to brush Isabelle's cheek. It was unusual, Jace realised, to see Alec so carelessly affectionate. He was always so measured and polite in his approaches to everyone, he rarely smiled or touched anyone. Yet with his sister he didn't hesitate.

"And it's my duty to obey him when he does so. I do not need to hear this lecture from you as well!" Isabelle tilted her face away from her brother's caress defiantly. "Suppose I do as Father asks. Then what? When they find you a good wife, will you do you duty for the family then Alec?" she demanded with strange malice.

Alec flinched away as though she'd struck him, throwing a look of alarm at Jace. "That is my affair" he stated bluntly, but his cheeks were flaming once again for some reason. "Where are all the damned servants?" he cried to no one in particular "We should have had supper hours ago."

Inexplicably desperate to get out of the room and away from the Lightwoods, Jace immediately volunteered to seek someone out.

Which is how minutes later he found himself wandering the halls of the palace in search of the kitchens. Of course all he had to do was collar a serving man or woman and order food, but he was far from eager to reunite with his party. So he let himself explore instead, noting that the people were getting increasingly well-dressed where he now found himself. With the women in their fashionably cut court gowns, coloured as brightly as the jewels they were so burdened down with and the men with in similarly stylish clothes and sporting jewelled blades; he guessed from the crowd he was nearing the royal apartments.

He continued to wind his way through the labyrinth of halls, his mind just as active as his feet while he pondered the events of the day. Firstly he failed to make sense of what had happened between his companions. While Isabelle had no qualms about raising hell at any suggestion of her marriage he couldn't fathom what fuelled the outburst at her brother. True enough, Alec had never spoken of marriage to him, but wives were hardly a popular topic of conversation between them.

Swinging around a corner he felt his body collide with something significantly less solid than the wall. He only had time to register a blur of green before he staggered back and felt the shape fall towards him. Instinctively his hands flew out and caught what felt like a very slim waist in an attempt to prevent his obstacle hitting the floor. When his vision cleared he found he now had a decidedly female figure in his grasp. A pair of startled emerald eyes stared into his for a single raging heartbeat before the lady tore herself away from him and he realised she was not so much a lady and more like a girl. A very slight girl in nought but a robe which fell open slightly to reveal the light material of a lace trimmed nightgown. Any vulnerability her state of undress may have suggested was burnt to ashes under the scorching green eyes.

"Is it so hard take account of where you are going?"

A quick glance around at the empty surroundings confirmed that they were, somehow, alone. Jace broke out his trademark smirk. "Not that I am not used to ladies throwing themselves at me, but I must protest that I fail to see that as a disservice."

He had expected her to laugh. Instead the glare intensified. "I beg pardon?"

"You needn't worry. All is forgiven."

The girl drew herself to full height, which sadly was not very tall, and stared into his face defiantly even though her cheeks were glowing red. "Hardly" she snapped.

His stomach gave an unexpected lurch under her scrutiny. In his experience court ladies were frivolous but feeble fools with the exception of perhaps Isabelle, and he suspected even she would find it difficult to stand on her dignity in such a circumstance. Then again, he doubted Izzy would be so callous as to wander the halls at late hours in her nightwear.

"What are you doing here?"

Jace took a shocked step back, "Is that any way for a lady to speak?"

"Is that any way to speak to a lady?" she retorted.

An astounded whoop of laughter leapt to his lips. For the first time since he'd crossed the border he wondered if his stay in Idris would have to be all work no play after all.

"Do all the Idrisian ladies make a habit of creeping around in very little at very late hours? Or is that just your pleasure?"

It took her moment to comprehend his lewd meaning.

The next thing he knew his head had snapped to one side and a strange stinging pain ripped through his right cheek. Blinking in surprise he turned back to face his assaulter slowly. She stood very still, clasping her reddened fingers and looked back at him with unperturbed remorse.

He may well have been stunned into an apology had it not been for the distinctive shuffle of feet further down the passage. Now it was the girl's turn to be alarmed. "You shouldn't be here!" she hissed urgently. Jace just stared back dumbly, still reeling from her slap. Flinging another glance back over her shoulder she stiffened. For a split second she seemed to consider leaving him to fend for himself, then took pity and grabbed his wrist.

Then Jace was being rapidly dragged down the hall and then being pushed into a darkened room. The young lady beside him shoved him further into the gloom and then peered through the slight crack she had left in the door. Fortunately their height difference enabled him to see over her head and into the no longer empty hallway. To his disbelief a pair of men at arms passed by their hiding place, thankfully too absorbed in their hushed dispute over a game of dice to notice the slightly ajar door. Jace strained his ears to listen to their retreating steps.

Even after they were gone the secreted duo made no move to leave; his companion's firm grip on his forearm prevented Jace going anywhere. In the shadows he was suddenly very aware of their close proximity. Aside from the slim fingers wrapped around his arm his ears were now filled with her shallow breaths and the firm press of her backbone through the flimsy layers of her clothing against his shoulder. He was mere inches from the slanted beam of light falling through the door and onto her face, illuminating her slight cheekbones and their scattering of freckles.

Keen to break the silence he made to speak but was instantly hushed and not a moment too soon as the men at arms returned, now in a grim silence. With a barely audible gasp the girl pushed the door further closed and huddled backward into Jace, stumbling slightly. Unthinking, Jace slipped a hand to her waist in order to steady her.

Mercifully they managed to remain undiscovered; the guards passed by once again and disappeared back the direction they came. After waiting what they deemed a safe amount of time the pair detached themselves uncomfortably and stepped out into the open.

Jace cleared his throat, "Well that was-"

He was hastily interrupted, "You shouldn't be here. Neither of us should. You need to go. Now!" Once again her urgency seemed contagious, and she punctuated her command with a slight shove. Bewildered as he was Jace began to retreat obediently. With a flashing look of relief across her fine features the girl also moved to go.

"Wait!" he called out suddenly. Remarkably she paused and glanced at him over her shoulder.

"Believe it or no, I don't make a habit of being pulled into dark corners by girls whose name I do not know."

He had fully expected her to tell him exactly where to go, probably with colourful language and accompanying gestures. Alas it seemed she was not yet exhausted of surprises. "Clary" she told him simply and then hurried away.

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* * *

 _ **A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I'd be grateful for any of your thoughts on what you've seen so far :) And apologies if the layout was going Cray-cray my computer keeps playing up.** _


	3. We are all of us sinners

**A/N: First off I should probably warn you Jace utters a very un-gentlemanly phrase at the very end of this chapter. You may or may not care but in order to really give a sense of the period I had to tap into some of the religious thinking at the time, the Church wielded so much power in the sixteenth century that it would ultimately have an significant impact on many people's lives, Clary & Co. included. That will be referenced throughout. At this time a lot of Europe was reforming and breaking away from the Catholic Church but for the purpose of several plotlines I have decided to keep Idris officially Catholic although a reformist underground will appear in later chapters. Furthermore the religious views, or in fact any views reflected by the characters are by no means mine Yada Yada, disclaimer and so forth. Just trying to give a bit of authenticity here. And it shouldn't completely saturate the chapters, I'm hoping there is enough other stuff to keep it interesting. Hopefully. All of that aside I hope you enjoy the chapter. **

_Chapter 2: We are all of us sinners_

 ** _Princewater Palace, Alicante, late April 1536_**

Clary hissed in frustration as the sharp silver needle jerked back from her finger. A single, despondent bead of blood welled up from the point of contact. In a belated attempt to stop herself bleeding over her morning's labours she flung the needlework to one side and raised her injured thumb to her mouth. This had gotten ridiculous. Her obedient pursuit of the maidenly arts had done nought but turned her fingers into pincushions and her patience into shreds. Why in the name of God could she not manage to stitch in a single straight line?

Admittedly, her skill with a thread had always left something to be desired but today the needle was definitely spending even more time than usual in her fingers rather than fabric. She couldn't seem to concentrate. Each time she managed to aim her attention at something useful it flitted back to the night before, to her encounter with the strange and beautiful boy.

She couldn't seem to push a pair of remarkably golden eyes and gentle lilting French from her mind. There was something about that strange, burning amber gaze that was almost familiar... She tried to rein herself in; that boy may have had the face of an angel, but his devilish grin and appalling manners ought to be enough to knock her back to her senses. His arrogant sneer as he all but called her a whore still left her seething. Yet the night remained a blur of conflicting images and the memory her hand placing a well-deserved blow warred with the feeling of a steady arm around her, halting her fall. Of course the former recollection brought her far more satisfaction, she reminded herself firmly. That boy was dangerous, it was already clear from their brief meeting that he was the not the sort to shower smiles on a girl and walk away leaving her reputation intact. Besides, she had bigger things to worry about than one cheeky cad. She had days to make herself a presentable Princess worthy of a royal marriage and very little help at hand.

Dropping her hands back to her lap and swallowing against the tang of blood in her mouth she found her eye meeting that of one of her ladies; the girl with the slanting features and the strange brown gold hair, Helen Blackthorn she recalled, who was looking at her with too much sympathy to tolerate.

"All this sewing is such weary work! Perhaps we could take a break? A walk in the gardens maybe, or I could read to you?" She made as if to rise, and Clary had to resist the urge to tackle her back into her seat. The last thing she wanted was her incompetence flapping about on a flagpole for all to see when Helen kindly sought out some soothing literature. The first lesson her mother had taught her was to hide any weakness. However embarrassing her failures with a needle and thread, her real fear now was that any more gentle consideration from Lady Helen would have her publicly in pieces: and that could not be borne.

Mercifully, she was saved by the entrance of a herald. "May I present to Your Highness the Lady Isabelle Lightwood, daughter of the Count of Adamant." Clary automatically straightened up in her seat and fixed what she hoped looked like a welcoming smile on her face as she beheld her newest lady.

The new girl sweeping her way into the room instantly commanded all attention. The slender figure of Isabelle Lightwood paused for a moment in the doorway, eyes skimming the room in seconds before resting on Clary with a raw curiosity that wiped the frozen smile from her features and kept her gaze locked on the other girl's. She barely had time to take stock of the enviously narrow waist, and the bright halo of her hood pushed startlingly far to expose rich ebony hair, before Isabelle was approaching with confident strides and sinking into an very foreign curtsy with elegant ease before her. Somewhere in her stunned mind she registered that chattering gossip of all the other ladies had been evaporated by the hot red of the Lightwood girl's gown blazing boldly through the modest pastel shades of Idrisian skirts.

From this angle there was no ignoring the fact that the French girl's plunging neckline bordered on scandalous and Clary found herself struggling to ignore the too many inches of creamy flesh it revealed. Then a pair of gleaming black eyes flickered up to hers expectantly and sent Clary reeling once again. She had been at court long enough to know that one's eyes stayed fixed to the floorboards when introduced to a superior and remained there until spoken to. Then Clary realised she had let the silence stretch on into discourtesy and hastily blurted out a greeting, willing herself fiercely not to stutter or blush. "Welcome to court Lady Isabelle."

"Charmed."

An unconventional reply for an unconventional girl.

"You and I both" the words escaped before she could bite them back, and sounded terribly dry even to Clary's ears.

The newcomer rose from her display of submission and assessed her new mistress shamelessly, although Clary noted there was now a slightly pink tinge to her cheeks. Around them some talk had crept back into the chamber in the form of low whispers amongst the other girls and there could be no doubt that the standoff between the daughter of the King and the daughter of the Count was the source.

Isabelle Lightwood towered over her but Clary refused to betray any signs of intimidation and kept her light gaze locked on the dark one. "You came from Adamant?" she said finally, to break the silence at least, and to gain some information from this curiosity of a girl at best. Not unexpectedly Isabelle was far from forthcoming . "Yes. But I was at the French court before that."

Well that explained the neckline.

"Then what brings you here? Alicante can't be very exciting compared to Paris."

"Duty" Isabelle responded with a smirk, even the bitter and wry expression couldn't disfigure her pretty face.

Clary felt her own lips tilt to a smile at their newfound common ground. She gestured to a seat amongst the other girls near her, which Isabelle took after executing another graceful curtsey. Taking the needlework back into her hands Clary felt a small glow of satisfaction eat away at her frustration.

However beautiful and daunting Isabelle Lightwood was, it was still refreshing to have found someone who wanted to be here just as little as she did.

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* * *

The hubbub of the crowd's excited chatter swelled as the doors to the King's presence chamber opened tantalisingly, only to grow subdued again as the only movement beyond was that of a clerk scurrying away. It really was quite amusing to watch the massed people cluster around a doorway all trying to look the most important only to jump like excited schoolchildren at any kind of movement from the inner rooms.

Tugging at his sleeve slightly as he tried to disguise an ink stain Jace considered the matter at hand. Quelling his impatience he turned to face Alec, "What do we anticipate this is about?"

"The royal marriage?!" Alec suggested incredulously, looking at Jace as though he had lost his mind.

"Well I concede that is the bigger picture. But I wonder what prompted these particular summons?"

Alec blinked, uncomprehending.

"It's barely been a week since we put Pangborn's nose out of joint. I doubt he recovered soon enough to pass on our introduction. The King likely asked for them directly himself. Now I wonder what could have prompted such immediate action." He looked at his friend's startled expression. "Not as stupid as I look" he said sardonically.

As though the mention had conjured his presence the doors swung open once again to release Pangborn, who turned to the French party with a pained sniff. "His Majesty will see you now." Without further ado the two young men rose, and throwing one another a hasty glance to exchange confidence and made to follow the brisk secretary. But Pangborn raised a hand with a half- heartedly apologetic expression. "Just the ambassador for now. Although you have been invited to join His Majesty in the gardens later with the other lords." Pangborn did not attempt to disguise his disapproval of the invitation.

He left a tangible pause before he decided he had not offended them nearly enough. "You are the Count of Adamant's son, yes?"

"Yes" Alec responded tightly.

Silently Jace unleashed a stream of violent curses. It was bad enough he had to do this at all, now he had to do it alone. But he wouldn't have Master Snuffly Pangborn see him perturbed. "Pray lead on sir" he invited with a sharp nod, "We shouldn't keep His Majesty waiting."

He turned to Alec once more and read a distinct _do not destroy this_ on his features as he stiffly walked after the King's secretary.

They passed through to the King's presence chambers and Pangborn lingered by the entrance while Jace was announced. Bracing himself, Jace took a deep breath and a step forward. There was barely time to appreciate the rich surroundings and golden pillars that lined the room before he was lowering himself into a deep and respectful bow before the raised dais.

"Ah. Your Excellency. Rise" the cool voice rang out by way of address.

Obediently Jace straightened up and met the King of Idris.

King Valentine the Second rested on a huge oak and gold seat, cutting quite the regal figure. He wore no crown and dressed completely in an immaculately cut black but he would be known for a king regardless. His very demeanour held the assurance that this was a man who had been born to power and he seemed to exude an aura of authority. He sported a neatly trimmed white beard though he was not an old man and the overall affect served to add a sense of wisdom and further authority to his perfectly composed features. Despite that his relatively unlined face was that of a man who had yet to cross fifty and the sharp black eyes now assessing Jace held all his wits intact. The clothing was undoubtedly fine but not gaudy; Valentine needed no fancy attire to prove his wealth and supremacy so the only jewels he wore was a chain of dark rubies, and the sapphire ring of state on his right hand.

The overall dominating presence was only accentuated by the tapestry that hung behind the king. The image of the crowned Angel exploding from the waters of the lake, brandishing a sword in his right hand and a jewelled cup in his left reminded all who stood before this man that the Morgenstern line could boast a heritage shrouded in myth and legend; it was said the blood of heaven itself ran in their veins.

Jace could feel the judgements being formed as the sovereign surveyed the young man before him. More than anything he wanted to impress this man, he supposed that was what made Valentine a king to be reckoned with. One dispassionate scan swept up and down Jace's body and already he longed to do better, something, anything for a single word of praise from this man. He wished the feeling were unfamiliar.

All these years he had tried to convince himself that he didn't care what anyone thought of him and here he was, a simpering idiot like all the rest about to fling the purpose of his entire existence upon Valentine Morgenstern's every whim. Again.

"Your Majesty" he forced himself to say calmly, meeting the stony gaze.

"Jonathan. It's been so long" Valentine offered a thin smile, "Too long."

Inwardly Jace recoiled at the use of his full name. Outwardly he returned the smile. "Yet the reunion is a pleasure."

The king's smile stretched a little but grew no warmer. "You are no longer a child I see. I suspect the pleasure is mine."

Jace saw no point in a reply. Thankfully Valentine decided to change the subject, "So, you think the Dauphin of France will make a fitting bridegroom."

At last, chartered territory. Jace had been rehearsing these arguments repeatedly in his head since the very moment he had received his commission, in fact he suspected that through perfecting existing points of persuasion and wracking his brains for new ones he had become so well acquainted with the strengths of the French prince's suit that he had begun to recite them in his sleep. Now enduring the king of Idris' scrutiny Jace gratefully seized the opportunity to finally take some control of the conversation.

"Indeed. He's close in age to the Princess and ready for a wife. There is much an alliance with France can offer you. King Francois extends his friendship, naturally, and your countries already have so much in common. Such a match will be especially advantageous to you, a Catholic King who has the Protestant German states pressing your kingdom's shoulder. It makes sense to ally with your powerful Catholic neighbour."

"All of this I know" Valentine extended an arm to signal the rooms beyond and the people who waited without, "But there are other Catholic suitors."

"None that your Majesty shares a border with. Why not secure your friendship by sharing a set of grandchildren? And we have not even begun to discuss the economic benefits. Just think, France has started not only started to trade with the Asian nations but it has also staked a claim in the New World. Think of the influence Idris might gain through such an alliance, then consider the growing market for Idrisian goods these new trade connections would create."

Valentine leaned back in his chair and raised hand to his mouth thoughtfully. "All true. I shall consider your suit Jonathan." Somehow, he made it sound as if he were saying 'I will consider you Jonathan'. Jace struggled to keep his expression nonchalant. The next words provided a welcome distraction. "Which is why I am throwing a feast at the end of this week, so that you and the others may see Clarissa for yourselves."

The hound diplomat started, none of the other envoys had lain eyes on this girl either? She truly must be hideously deformed he thought dejectedly. Well it hardly mattered; ultimately France would wed her for her bloodline and her connections, not her beauty. Although he admitted a fair face would have helped proceedings.

He could also see from the way the king was withdrawing from the conversation he was about to be dismissed. Instinctively a wave of resentment peaked within him at the thought of being sent away when he still had so many things to say, so many questions for this man. Already he knew he would never say them. There would never be any answers as to why he had been abandoned by Valentine in the first place. He may have been raised at this court and by this man but he wondered if Valentine were capable of feeling affection for anyone. He knew exactly what he would say if the questions were put to him; that kings explained themselves to no one save God and especially not children.

However Jace was not a child anymore and in the end he had made his own way in the world. He did not need the King of Idris now, in truth he never had at all. "It would be an honour to attend your Majesty" he merely said,sketching another bow and beginning to back out of the room. .

"Oh and remind the Lightwood boy to attend me later" the king called after his retreating figure, already beckoning for Pangborn to fetch someone else.

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* * *

The river walk was beautiful. . The preoccupied mutter of the Princewater river as it curled around the palace walls and then rolled into the city carried over to the narrow path she strolled on. Downriver the waters would be filled, with the busy traders carrying their wares into Alicante and the stylish barges of the nobility and the court officials as they drifted between the court and their townhouses on the daily tides. Here however, on the narrow channel that brushed just under the ledge of the queen's apartments the shallow waters were peaceful and private. Although she had a choice of summer gardens, Clary preferred to take her daily outing here. Something about the rich greenery fringing the Princewater reminded her of the thick trees of Broceland forest that had kept her sheltered so on the clear waters single swan bobbed along, the haughty arch of a snowy neck and calmly gliding figure on the glossy waters effectively concealed the furiously paddling feet Clary knew must churn beneath the waves

Watching the swan spread its mighty wings to surge upwards and the disturbed water cascade around it like shattering glass, Clary indulged in the childish fancy of being able to fly away after it. Hastily she shoved the thought away. The last thing she wanted was to taint this peaceful scene with her frustrations. Perhaps the most beautiful thing about nature was its ability to remain untouched by power plays and personal woes.

Hearing footfalls behind her she turned and immediately felt her face brighten with a smile. The other benefit of this walk was being able to see Simon. Much to her dismay she'd seen and spoken very little to her friend since she'd arrived. He had been in her chambers often enough, but always behind his lute, and that left little room for conversation. After all Simon too was here for a purpose; to finally make something of himself as a musician. That meant he spent most of his time amongst the other court musicians, trying to make some valuable friends that might help him get forward. Very soon she would have to do the same, it was essential that she integrated herself with all the nobles and worse still, the envoys who would be scribbling word of her every move back to some foreign prince who would decide whether or not to keep her for the rest of her life as a result.

But here, during the few hours after dinner in which she managed to escape the confines of her rooms Simon almost always managed to make their paths crossed. His earnest brown eyes lit up as they met hers and he sketched a comically sincere bow, sweeping off his hat in an over-dramatic flourish that left strands of dark hair standing up at strange angles. Pressing her lips closed on a giggle, Clary lowered herself to a similarly mocking curtsey. She could always rely on Simon to bring her some good cheer. Often, as she lay in bed racked with homesickness she found herself wishing that she could invite Simon in, so that they could curl up and fall asleep together like they had as children. But that was beyond impossible; a young lady in her position had to be above all virtuous, and the notion of her sharing a bed with a boy to whom she was not wed was unthinkable, even if she had known him all her life and it was completely innocent. She could not afford even a smudge of scandal on her reputation, especially not now, but certainly not ever. Her name was all she had. Yet one night had been particularly bad, enough for her to take advantage of a tardily unlocked door to risk venturing out past her sleeping maid and seeking him out. She had never reached him, of course, but that had led to a whole other adventure.

"Fancy our meeting here!" Simon cried, coming forward to walk by her.

"Indeed. How are affairs in the cut-throat world of choir boys?"

"I am not a choir boy Clary. Although they are a ruthless pack of little wolves, you'd be torn apart in an instant. I would not cross one."

"Now I can imagine their holy robes flapping around their feet as they beat you senseless to a _te deum."_

"Senseless? Be fair, they're less than twelve."

"And I suspect with your maturity you may as well be."

Her friend rolled his eyes. "I'm ignoring that. Instead I'm going to direct this conversation to the real matter of interest."

"Which is?" Clary enquired tentatively. Simon began to speak, then his attention darted to one side. He stumbled on some incoherent word for a moment before abandoning it altogether and turning a wide eyed gaze to their left. "Who-who is the dusky beauty?"

Clary followed his gaze to the ladies walking behind her at a respectful distance, though she feared she already knew the answer. As anticipated, Isabelle Lightwood was hurrying out from the under gateway to the palace, arriving late from God knew what to walk by Aline Penhallow.

"Ah our _fleur de lis_!" At the confused reception, Clary sighed and tried to elaborate. She picked up the pace a little, keen to ensure they were out of earshot before continuing. "That's Lady Isabelle Lightwood. She's the daughter of some French Count and she's here with King Francois' embassy.

"Why does she have a place among your ladies?"

"Because His Majesty told me to give her one. Well I'm sure he would have done of he'd consulted me." She shrugged and lowered her eyes to the butter yellow hem of her dress grazing the grass, eager to avoid the look of sympathetic outrage that was sure to be in her friend's face. "Anyway she has a place at court, whatever the circumstances. Perhaps it is sign that I am to go to the Dauphin." She glanced back up at Simon, only to find his focus thoroughly fixated on Isabelle.

"Simon!" she summoned him back to her sharply.

"What?"

"She'll gouge your eyes out if she catches you staring."

"Really?"

"Really. I almost lost a page yesterday whose eyes lingered a little too long upon her bosom. Her fury was really quite unfair to the lad, you'd expect that with that much flesh willingly displayed she wanted attention."

"You don't like her?" There was a strange sort of curiosity in his tone.

"I have yet to form an opinion. I hardly know her."

"But you must think something."

"Well then, I suppose I find her… interesting if not a little intimidating."

"Why?"

Clary caught her lip between her teeth, chewing slightly. "I suppose that's how I find all other noble girls my age. It's a very boring and very female story. Let's talk about something else. What was the matter you wanted to discuss first? And I swear Simon if you are about to ask me to hear another of your new friend Eric's poems I will throw you in the river."

He threw his head back and laughed, "No. But do not give me ides. I was going to ask you about this dinner your father is throwing tomorrow."

Clary groaned, "I've changed my mind. Send for Eric, I have a sudden longing for his verses."

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* * *

Alec narrowed his eyes at the target, his whole body as taut as the bow in his arms before he finally let the arrow fly loose and plunge into the board. It was met once again by the polite smattering of applause amongst the assembled lords. Slowly he lowered the longbow and turned to face the king and his companions.

"Aha! Trounced again Blackwell!" The Marquess of Edgehunt clapped enthusiastically as he bellowed with laughter. The King on the other hand merely nodded, an equable smile balanced on his features. "Yes. You shoot well Lord Alexander."

Alec dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement of the compliment, still straining to calculate what exactly he was doing taking part in an archery competition with the King's inner circle. Then he moved on to fretting that having the audacity to win an archery competition against the most influential lords at court was a very bad idea. But he reminded himself that he was supposed to be making a good impression on these men, and somewhere along the line he had decided upon doing so by showing them he was something to be reckoned with, not some green boy to be swept aside. His father had always told him that while the French appreciated charm, the Idrisian's would only acknowledge a show of strength. Besides, his skill with a bow was the only one he had and he couldn't quite bring himself to hide it.

Lord Blackwell set his jaw, visibly trying to disguise his fury as he extended a reluctant hand to shake in an empty show of good sportsmanship. For the hundredth time Alec found himself wishing Jace were here; he would be sure to make some asinine comment so insulting that Blackwell would instantly forget about Alec and turn all his animosity on his best friend instead. That was how their friendship worked: Alec cleaned up Jace's messes, and in return on the rare occasion of Alec making a mess Jace would deliberately make an even bigger one to distract all attention from the fact Alec had slipped up in the first place. That was how they had done it since they'd been adolescents together in Adamant and after all these years they knew it to be a tried and tested strategy.

Yet for whatever reason all week King Valentine had been requesting Alec's presence among the nobles who attended him . This was of course, a desired outcome, but Alec really wished he knew what it was he had done right. Earlier in the week His Majesty had granted a brief audience with Jace and during which insisted Alec join him later that day. And inexplicably after what Alec would have described as a thoroughly uneventful meeting given the King had barely looked at him, his company had been requested at similar hour every day since.

Although he tended to stay as quiet as possible at the back of the group, Alec was nonetheless aware of the cutting contempt of this realms peers. Both he and Jace were after all, in the eyes of most of the court, a pair of upstart children. An assumption not helped in the slightest given his apparently immediate grant of royal favour.

Moreover, he dreaded to think what they would say of Isabelle when the Princess was introduced to the wider public and his little sister stood in her train. He knew all too well that she had no intention of floating along with their father's plans like 'some inane piece of driftwood' as she had bluntly told their parents on the eve of their parting. The memory of his father's sharp reply to her defiant words still stung. The image that came to mind was of the unconcealed rage in the Count's flaring dark eyes as he harshly informing her that this plan was at least a piece of driftwood she was clinging to, and that she ought to be thankful he had saved her from the shipwreck of her reputation in France, and even more thankful for God's mercy that word of her behaviour had not spread as far as Idris.

The King whipped him out of his worries with a crooked finger, beckoning for Alec to follow him as he moved away from the game and the bragging lords. Pretending he was blind to the indignant glowering of the gentleman, Alec obediently crossed the green to stand by Valentine.

"Majesty?"

"Walk with me Lightwood, we have much to discuss where there is no one present to hang on our every word." Swallowing roughly past his apprehension Alec waited for the king to continue. "You write to your father, I suppose?"

"Yes, sire."

"Good. It is important for sons and fathers to maintain a bond." Alec nodded in silent agreement, pondering the strange direction of the discussion. In his experience when a king wanted to talk with you it more often meant that a king wanted to talk to you, and from what he had heard of King Valentine it would be necessary only for him to listen attentively and to make noises of agreement where he felt they were required. Inwardly he tried to decode the last comment, wondering if this was some sort of indirect reference to Valentine's own son.

The Crown Prince was out of the capital presently, doing some kind of tour of the northern country and his estates there, although he would be expected in Alicante in the next few hours to arrive just in time for his sister's presentation. From what Alec had heard Jonathan Morgenstern was some kind of unspeakable disappointment to his father and as a consequence Valentine kept him out of the city as much as possible. How that connected to Alec's own relationship with his father was beyond his comprehension.

"It has been many years since I last saw the Count. Remind him of my gratitude for all his years of good service in your next letter."

"Service?" Valentine's unreadable black eyes flicked to Alec's and he realised that he had voiced the query out loud.

The king's raised his hand brushed his fingers to his beard. On anyone else it would have seemed like a nervous gesture. "True, your family are first and foremost the subjects of the King of France, but I fear I must speak plainly in order to fully explain our association."

Alec gave a vague expression of consent, although he doubted he was in a position to refuse. He also doubted Valentine Morgenstern ever spoke plainly, each word that left his lips seemed to be layered with meaning. Still, he was curious.

"After your grandfather's disgrace and death the new Count found himself in quite a predicament. Instead of appealing to King Francois however, he accepted an invite to attend me at my court and while he was here we came to an agreement. I believe it was the only way Robert could afford to keep his estates and save face with his own sovereign."

There was a pause during which Alec felt himself colour slightly. He had been raised under the pretence that his grandfather's fall from grace was a well-kept family secret, so discovering the King of Idris knew all about the whole shameful affair did not settle well with him. Struggling to keep his courtier's face free of any discomfort Alec kept walking, following the king onto a pathway covered by a canopy of bowed sycamores.

"How has your sister settled at court?"

This caught him even more off-guard. There were more twists and turns in this conversation than in a sailor's knot. "Quite well I believe. She is very much taken by the Princess Clarissa," He responded courteously."I hear she is a great deal like her mother." It was no surprise that the king would speak highly of his mother, Alec tried to reason, she was after all Idrisian and had grown up at this court.

"She was my mother's lady in waiting and later my wife's" His Majesty continued, echoing his thoughts, "It was I who arranged your parent's marriage you know. Lady Mayrse Trueblood was quite the catch for him. The only daughter of the Earl of Chellwick and a valuable heiress, your lady mother has ever been a loyal servant to me. I thought that they would accord well together." Alec forced himself not to wince and held his tongue. His parents current marital discord was surely beyond the interest of the King.

Sadly, it appeared it was not. "I am sorry to hear that no longer seems to be the case."

Suddenly Alec could take it no more, pausing long enough to catch a breath and mentally piece together his words he plunged right in, "Your Majesty's concern is too kind, I thank you for. I only wish I could understand what a family as humble as mine could have done to warrant it."

The king laughed, though it was a sound of mirth edged with some kind of acute pleasure, "Spoken like a true courtier. I see you learned your trade well from Frenchmen. Well, suffice to say that your family has done much to warrant my concern and I hope will continue to do so in the future." He accompanied his speech with a rather meaningful look at Alec. The unspoken promise was obvious: _I have done much for the existing Count of Adamant and I could do even more for the next one, if he could do much for me._

"As ever, you are too kind." Alec said carefully, suddenly eager to keep his response ambiguous. He wasn't sure whether or not he wanted to know what kind of service his father had rendered this man over the years, much less commit himself to a similar arrangement. He quickly tried to assure himself that there was no reason to accept given he was not in the position his father had been.

As he and the king regarded one another the first few heavy raindrops of what was sure to be a pouring April shower began to fall. "Let us return to our party" the king finally said, clapping Alec on the shoulder. "We are all surely keen to avoid a downpour." As they turned back the way they had come Valentine gave Alec another of his signature profoundly empty smiles. "I expect you and I will be seeing a great deal of one another, Lord Lightwood."

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* * *

The petite blond smiled up at Jace, peeping at him from under her lashes. Her charmingly affected modesty was making this entire flirtation game all the more fun. He shot her a daring smirk over the rim of his cup before taking another mouthful of what he supposed in passed for good wine in Idris. He was accustomed to a much heavier French drink, and he feared that he was on the verge of having consumed too much of this light, sweet liquid that he was so unused to. As the thought of such reckless behaviour tended to attract his best friend, reliably Alec appeared a few paces away, shooting Jace a warning look. Ignoring him, Jace dropped his new acquaintance another compliment and gestured to a serving boy for another drink.

Like a hawk, Alec swept over as the fresh cup arrived. "Forgive me Lady-?"

"Kaelie" the girl supplied casting an unimpressed eye over Alec's plain apparel. Apparently not even a royal dinner was enough to persuade Alec to set aside his solemn black clothing, although Jace sighed inwardly as he noted his coat tonight was a little worn around the sleeves.

"Lady Kaelie, I'm afraid I must borrow the Ambassador for a moment." As his friend began to steer him away Jace tossed a wink over his shoulder at her in recompense for his sudden absence.

Drawing him into a quiet corner of the crowded hall Alec pinned him with a penetrating look and reached for his wine cup. Jace pulled away in an attempt to preserve his lifeline, but he moved rather sluggishly and Alec successfully prised the drink from his fingers, some spilling over Jace in the struggle.

"Was that really necessary?" he demanded, shaking the droplets from his hand impatiently.

"Yes. I swear by all the saints Jace if I deem you to be too drunk I will not hesitate to drag you out into the stable yard and dunk your head repeatedly in a water trough until I deem you sober enough."

Jace groaned at the prospect, he could already feel the water clogging his ears. It was a threat Alec had carried out before. "I'm sobering up already."

"Thought you might." Alec gave him a knowing smile.

"I note that your new friend the king has yet to make an appearance tonight. I hope he does soon, firstly because this is his event and a pivotal point in our embassy and more importantly because I am starving."

Alec stopped scanning the crowd and followed Jace's gaze to the empty dais, where an empty but dignified throne ruled, flanked by two smaller chairs on either side of it. "He will soon. I told you, he's going to present the prince and princess and then we will go to our seats and eat. And the king is hardly my friend."

"Really? He can barely bear to have you out of his sight these days!"

"Not because he likes me." Alec snapped, twisting the family ring on his index finger in frustration. He looked at Jace, suddenly appearing contemplative as though he were making an important decision. "When you spoke with the King, did he mention your father?"

Involuntarily Jace stiffened and sent a flashing look over his shoulder to judge who was listening. Thankfully the other guests were immersed in their own conversations, speculating about the princess mostly he guessed.

"Of course not."

"Hmmm" Alec grew thoughtful, "And the Princess? You really don't remember anything about her?"

"I've told you before Alec, no. I don't remember much of it. I was just a child."

"In the royal nursery! You were practically one of them!"

"No" Jace corrected shortly, feeling the last of the alcohol's warm glow drain out of him to be replaced by a palpable chill in the air that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. "I wasn't one of them and I never felt that way. Not after I found out."

The sincere compassion in the returning gaze made Jace impossibly more uncomfortable.

"How _did_ you find out? Did the King tell you?"

"I don't know Alec. I can't remember" he answered curtly, "And I certainly don't think of it anymore."

That was a downright lie. He could remember all too well the moment he had learned of his father's downfall.

 _He couldn't have been more than four or five years old and had been playing with Prince Jonathan when they had gotten into a scuffle and he had made the mistake of sinking his teeth into his playmate's royal arm. The nurse who had watched the whole thing swooped in instantly, hauling Jace away from the prince and clawing roughly at his soft young flesh, yanking him to his feet. He could still picture her face, twisted with anger as it leaned into his, spittle flicking his face as she hissed the words that would end his innocence. "How dare you! You filthy little traitor's bastard!" Then she'd served him a ringing slap and towed him off to the king._

 _Jonathan had been beaten too of course, because he was always much rougher when they played. The two of them were always punished physically, even Jonathan. Other princes had whipping boys but the Crown Prince of Idris was personally punished for his own misdemeanours, though only ever by the king's own hand. A little boy who was going to be God's chosen ruler of his country was a sacred person and so could not have a hand laid on him. Not by anyone other than his father._

 _Jace could remember taking that beating like he'd taken all the others; in utter silence, refusing to let so much as a whimper cross his lips. It had been much later, when the baby princess was put down for the night and his aching limbs kept him awake that Jace had crept down to where her nurse was seated by the fire. He had always preferred her, where Jonathan's nurse was a vicious vixen Clarissa's was always kind to him. She had spotted him lingering in the doorway and had instantly pulled him onto her lap. Back then he had loved her more than anyone else and it was only looking back now that he realised why. While all the other nursery attendants had always been wary about touching him, save of course the Prince's nurse who only ever did so to deliver a painful reprimand, Mrs Lewis had no such qualms about lavishing affection on the little boy who was utterly alone in the world. As she held him he had finally asked the question that had been burning in him all day: "Why did she call me that?"_

 _There was no need for the nurse to enquire what he was referring to because she had watched the whole fiasco helplessly. "Poppet, you know that your father died before you were born and your mother died bearing you?"_

 _Little Jace had nodded, gazing up into her loving nut brown eyes. "What was said to you today was cruel, but Lady Ravenscar was referring to your father's death. Do you have any idea how he died?" He had shaken his head, desperate now for the truth he had been protected from for so long. He could remember the feel of her chest swelling as she drew in a deep breath and then launched into her tale, the words pouring out in a forceful flood. "She called you a bastard, which was wrong of her. A bastard is a child born out of wedlock and your parents were married, but your mother was not your father's first wife, who parted from him and joined a convent. Some people feel he should not have married again but he was in truth free to do so and he wed your mother in view of a bishop and of God. The King arranged and approved the match and so it was lawful and true. You are trueborn._

 _'But your father died because he acted against the king, whom God has given the right to rule over us all and so sinned greatly. That is treason, it is the worst of crimes and the punishment for that is death. Those who do such things are traitors. That is why your father had to die."_

 _"Why would he act against the king, if it is the worst crime of all?" He had demanded, uncomprehending as to how his father, who had surely been a good man could have done such a terrible thing._

 _"We are all of us sinners sweeting. Some of just sin more than others." The nurse had told him, holding him close, as though her love could wash away all the hurtful truth._

 _Jace had been quiet then for a long time, and eventually she had assumed he was asleep and carried him back to bed. It was only as she tenderly tucked the sheets in around him that he had turned his head on the pillow and asked his final question quietly, "How did they kill him?"_

 _She had floundered for the words to blanket the horrible answer but in the end had found none. "They cut off his head. But it would have been so quick that I doubt he felt any pain."_

 _And that had been the last he had spoken of it to anyone. Even in the months afterwards, every time he awoke screaming from the same nightmare and Mrs Lewis would sit on the end of his bed in silence until he fell asleep again, neither of them would acknowledge that they both knew the horror he had dreamed of._

Jace hastily shook himself a little as he attempted to bring himself back to the present. Over the years he had become accustomed to the knowledge although he would not go as far as to say that it had become bearable. Realistically there was no reason he should mourn his father, Stephen Herondale had made a foolish decision that had sent his head rolling across the Gard's green before he had even been born. His mother had failed to do much better, from what he heard she had been miserable in the months after her husband's arrest, and bitter about having to bear a child that had once been heir to the greatest dukedom in Idris and was now to be born to absolutely nothing. In fact she had decided her heartbreak was too great a burden and had begun to make arrangements for her child to be taken in by some distant family rather than raise him herself and keep the taint of treason under her roof a moment longer than she had to. Ultimately she hadn't had much time to grieve for her lost fortune or have to deal with the traitor's spawn, she had perished in childbed just weeks after her husband's shameful demise.

Nonetheless, like the wounded who insisted they still felt the limbs they had lost, Jace had always been aware of the aching gap in his life were his parents had been. However selfish or foolish they had been at least they would have been his parents. Not the King of Idris who begrudgingly agreed to take him in so he could keep a close eye on his enemy's son, or the Lightwood's who, however much they felt like family now, had agreed to take him in the first place because of the generous sum of money they were offered to do so.

Thankfully the swelling fanfare of trumpets drowned out all talking and further thinking as King Valentine himself made his entrance, mounting the steps onto the dais and standing before his throne.

"Welcome, my good lords and ladies!" he called out, his face a perfect mask of pride and happiness as he became the loving father, finally able to revel in the joy of having his children with him. "I thank you all for your attendance here today. There is much that I could say, of course, but I do not wish to prolong the waiting." He donned a pleasant smile, gesturing towards the rear door of the room. "May I present to the court, my children: Prince Jonathan and the Princess Clarissa!"

The crowd instantly parted like the red sea, making room for the royal duo to walk down the hall. With the sudden urgency of pressing shoulders Jace found himself pulled back a few steps and so initially all he was able to see was the distinctive white-blond head of Jonathan Morgenstern. Then the line in front of him shifted and he finally caught his first glimpse of the princess. It was as though Alec had shoved his head into a trough of cold water after all. All he could do was stand there staring dumbly, stomach lurching sickly as he stared. It was not, as it happened, his first glimpse of the adult princess.

Tonight she looked entirely different. Someone had persuaded her out of her nightgown and into a tight moonlight blue dress, a corset accentuating her narrow bust and hips and skirts flaring out around an navy kirtle. But he would know her anywhere, even now as she transferred a little hand from her brother's grasp to her father as he helped her up the steps and steered her petite form onto the dais.

Under the curving French hood her hair flowed unbound down her back in waves of molten copper and although he wasn't close enough to actually see, he knew that the eyes now determinedly meeting the assessing gazes of the applauding crowd would be a serious and shining green. Carefully with a nod and a smile to her court, she turned and settled herself into the seat on her father's left.

Clary. Short for Clarissa.

"What is it?" Alec demanded, looking over at his friend's frozen form in alarm.

"Horse fucking shit" Jace eventually choked out.

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 **Poor Jace! I'm afraid this is just the beginning of your problems buddy.* evil cackling* Thanks for reading guys :)**


	4. Sparks

**A/N: _First and foremost thank you so much for the encouraging reviews! They really made me smile (yay). Special thanks to L'ecureuil your ideas and knowledge are so helpful, I can't even begin to express how much I appreciate it! I will try not to let you down. As for privateer Magnus, I am so here for that, although at the moment I did have some ideas for Magnus, possibly keeping his canon link to the more occult and supernatural through alchemy. But he is certainly a character with a colourful past,so there is a lot of potential for some time spent at mischief on the high seas_** ** _:) And with regard to the issues raised about how much of what is canon will go into the story, obviously I can't say for certain right now because I'm forever chopping and changing. But it is my intention to address many of the characters more prominent aspects/traits and how that might have impacted them had they lived in the 1500s (not good in general), for example Alec's sexuality, Clary and Isabelle's wilfulness and independence at a time when women were strictly subordinate property and Simon and Jace's faith or lack thereof in Jace's case. And finally there is no set update schedule, I'll post whenever I can and fortunately I have the benefit of school holidays so I do have more time to write these days. However I don't want to rush and give you chapters that aren't good, I'd rather take my time and put in a real effort. Plus, I like to stay at least a a few chapters ahead of myself so that I can go back, adding or changing any details that have occurred to me as I progress with the story so I don't want to breathe down my own neck too much. Anyway I think that is quite enough ranting for one chapter..._**

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 _Chapter 3: Sparks_

Carefully Clary shredded the white meat under the sharp edge of her knife and took another small mouthful. The roast chicken was truly delicious but she couldn't afford to appear a glutton, and so with another gracious smile she waved the plate and the servant that carried it onwards after taking a small helping. The smile had been etched in her face so long her cheeks hurt, she feared that by now it seemed more a scowl. Aside from the fact she was keen to avoid appearing greedy she was also contending with the apprehension fizzing in the pit of her stomach, which certainly prevented her from eating her fill. Allowing her eyes a darting circuit of the rows of long, narrow tables and benches she quickly confirmed that the heavy stares of most of the hall's occupants were still fixed on her. So it seemed she maintained the undisputed position of court curiosity.

At her shoulder another serving boy appeared and refilled her wine cup to the brim. Taking a sip she reminded herself to be careful of the delicious and headily honeyed liquid. Soothing to her frayed nerves as the wine was, getting drunk would be far from a remedy to her woes.

Thankfully she seemed to have evaded being drawn too deep into a conversation thus far, the others seated at the high table were content to chat amongst themselves and Clary rarely had to volunteer anything beyond a smile and a noise of assent. From what she could gather as she drifted in and out of the chat her brother was planning some kind of hunting trip while her father heard suggestions for the court's summer progress.

"I'm sure the princess would love the southern country, the estates around Lake Lyn are especially beautiful in the summer. And from what I hear Lady Carstairs has recently refurbished Chatton House, so its sure to be more than comfortable" The Marquess of Edgehill, George Penhallow recommended. Clary returned his smile gladly; he was one of the few councillors she had taken any sort of a liking to. His seemingly kind smile and considerate attempts to include her in their conversation were quite endearing.

"I'm sure I would like that very much, my lord."

The other lords moved on in their plans but the Marquess continued talking to her. "And how does life at court suit Your Highness thus far?"

Clary couldn't restrain a mild giggle, "I fear I've barely begun to experience court life."

"I fear you may be right." He paused for a moment as though considering carefully what to say next. "Madam if I may be quite so bold.." he looked rather warily for consent.

"Pray continue" Clary encouraged past another bite of bread.

"I appreciate that this may be quite a change from the life you are used to and I believe Your Highness must be careful not to be overwhelmed. Take caution where you seek out council, that is the best advice I can give. But do not make yourself too alone Princess, I believe a royal position is a lonely enough state."

Clary blinked, she never would understand why men could not even manage to give a lady advice without issuing orders. _Take care to seek council with you, you mean._ She quelled her thoughts and tried to nod appreciatively, "I had not looked for such kindness from you. I thank you, sir."

He nodded, seeming pleased with himself. "I only speak because I have a daughter your own age, madam. I know of the many tribulations a young woman must face."

 _Only because you lords insist we face them_ she reflected wryly, but outwardly kept herself as pleasant as possible.

"Ah yes, Lady Aline? She is very accomplished, " She managed, trying to hold the picture of the rather dainty, solemn girl whom she was sure was this man's daughter. Lord Penhallow preened at the praise and suddenly Clary found herself fighting the urge to laugh. No one had warned her that the noble men of Idris would be such pompous fools.

"Those earrings. Your mother had a pair just like them." Her mirth instantly disappeared and the laughter dried up in her throat. King Valentine was looking at her, his expression as deliberately blank as ever yet there was a kind of strange gleam in his eyes. As Clary turned her head to him she felt rather than saw the candlelight bounce off the sapphires hanging delicately from her ear lobes.

"Yes, these are hers" she offered uncertainly, staring into her father's face and desperately trying to decipher the emotion she was sure lurked there somewhere. "She gave them to me before I left the convent" she continued, unable to stop herself babbling to fill the gaping silence between them. "They complement the necklace you sent nicely. Thank you so much."

]Valentine merely nodded, "You look just like her sometimes." The tone was undoubtedly wistful as he contemplated his absent wife. Nonetheless, as quickly as his nostalgia came it went and the King immersed himself back in the courteously meaningless babble of his previous conversation.

In return Clary lowered her attention to the corner of cloth that had been left for her to clean her fingers. As Clary laid down her knife her eyes skimmed across the steady blue gaze that had watched her so intently through dinner. Remembering the familiar way Lucian Graymark had spoken with her mother Clary stared back, wishing he would speak to her again. He had been amiable enough of their journey here and she could use an ally at court, and knowing all too well how hard it was to win even a scrap of Jocelyn's trust she had already marked him out as her most likely candidate. After all her mother's parting words had assured her that she could rely on Luke.

Gently dabbing her fingertips she wondered yet again what it was exactly that had ended her parent's marriage. Of course, because her father was such a staunchly Catholic sovereign he would never dream of divorcing his spouse despite the couple having lived apart for years . As far as Clary knew they had married for love which had caused quite the scandal at the time. Sitting beside the King now it was difficult to imagine him being moved by any sort of passion; charming and quick as his words were she got the distinct feeling each of them was chosen with the utmost care. Besides, a young king was supposed to marry for political benefit and security but barely had the crown of Idris touched Valentine Morgenstern's head before he announced himself wedded to Jocelyn Fairchild, the daughter of practically no one and whisked her off to the capital to have her crowned queen. Their brief union had produced two children but by the time Clary had turned six the marriage had turned sour and Jocelyn had decided to shut herself up in a nunnery with her only daughter.

Out of sight out of mind, the thinking must have been. Clary's presence in Alicante showed how wrong that presumption had turned out to be. Over the years Jocelyn had been frustratingly vague as to why she had left the King and renounced her title, expertly evading her daughter's questions and infuriatingly insisting that the less Clary knew the better. Regardless of what had happened almost a decade ago, here Clary was sitting in her mother's place with her jewels circling her throat and weighing down her ears. Jocelyn may not have interfered in state affairs for almost a decade but her daughter was going to be used in Valentine's power games anyway. Clary stared numbly as the plates and cups were cleared away. Whoever it was that had claimed ignorance to be bliss really had been too ignorant to realise the stupidity of what they were saying.

"Clarissa." Clary started in shock at having been addressed by her father for the second time that evening. He brushed his fingertips along his neat beard thoughtfully, eyes sweeping over his only daughter. "Come, I believe the ambassadors have waited long enough to meet you."

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* * *

The cool metal edge bit into soft white flesh as Isabelle gripped her wine cup between her fingers. Realising that she could no longer feel them, she forced herself to prise her fingers away from the drink. She hoped that was the only sign she was uneasy. Subtlety tipping the cup upwards she used the new angle to survey her own expression. Thankfully, her practised courtier's face looked back at her, carefully smooth of any emotions. In fact, she even looked bored.

Which she was having been left here alone, with Jace most likely off chasing some girl who must have looked like she would be easy quarry and Alec trying to integrate himself with some more important people while also trying to avoid any real social contact.

She supposed she could have done the same but really she was loath to leave her own spot. Because the princess was now seated in front of the huge yawning fireplace of the parlour she and her ladies could enjoy the heat while also occupying a prime vantage point, peering through the door that lead back into the main hall. From here Isabelle could get a good look at almost everyone in the hall. She could see her brother stuttering his way through a round of pleasantries with Helen Blackthorn's father and the Crown Price lounging against a pillar and grinning wolfishly at a dark haired boy if his own age she thought might the Verlac heir. There was something about the confident roll of his shrugging shoulders and such a purposeful expression of indifference that seemed familiar. Her eyes widened slightly as she reached the conclusion that she had been watching her brother's best friend wear a similarly affected complacency for years.

With the thought of Jace came the realisation that he was nowhere to be seen. Isabelle realised with a jolt that she hadn't seen him all evening. The thought was soon accompanied by a dizzy swell of relief and the lingering flavour of Idrisian wine in her mouth suddenly tasted of triumph. From what she had gathered from the snatches of her companion's arguments Jace had already made the mistake of getting on the wrong side of the King's secretary ,which they seemed to have recovered from. That had been a setback, but if Jace failed to make an appearance here very soon it would be fatal.

Watching a shift in the line of ambassadors that did not include Jace as another moved forward to flatter the princess, Isabelle allowed a celebratory smile to herself.

"What's so amusing?" Kaelie Whitewillow demanded from her shoulder. Isabelle glanced at her fellow lady in waiting and widened her grin. "You want to share the jest? I was just thinking of what a tragedy it will be to have to return to Adamant."

"You're going home? But you barely got here."

"Yes. Pleasant as my sojourn here has been it seems to have regrettably come to an end." She layered her words in sarcasm and gave Kaelie another beaming smile. The little blonde threw a glance at the princess to confirm she was engrossed in her conversation with the Imperial Ambassador before leaning toward Isabelle, "Not the Dauphin?"

"Not without the ambassador, and he's nowhere to be seen. I must admit it'll be a nice change, not to be the family disappointment."

Kaelie's wide blue eyes were momentarily concealed by her confused blinking. "But why are you so eager to leave?"

The square neckline of her best and exceedingly expensive cream coloured dress swelled outwards while Isabelle forced herself to take a deep breath. "I'd get to go back to Paris you ninny. Where everyone dresses better and flirts better and there's much more opportunity for scandal and excitement. France is a cultural centre of Europe while Idris is, well- a notion of sheep farmers quite frankly. In truth, now it's put to my consideration I think it might be best for our dear, delicate mistress if she loses out on a marriage to France's darling prince."

Not that Clarissa Morgenstern was delicate as a glimpse at the way she managed Signor Santiago would confirm; she kept smiling in a polite but sensibly unmoved way at the dark head bowed over her hand in a parting kiss was. She might look like a doll, but Isabelle was willing to wager that some real steel lurked beneath the seemingly porcelain skin. The rather disappointed way in which the clever and charismatic young Spaniard departed suggested he had previously convinced himself of an easy conversation with the young royal which would leave her firmly wrapped around his little finger and his victory assured. Isabelle could sympathise, having underestimated the little spitfire herself initially.

Yet however spirited the girl may be there was still a lot of work required to make her the paragon of womanhood and marriage that her father commanded she be. Her current dressing habits and stiffly awkward posture would have to be the first to go. The Idrisian court was not at all what Isabelle had imagined; she had helped several ladies of good and royal breeding prepare for marriage before but she had never seen anything like this. King Valentine had taken up the position of standing over his youngest child, one hand placed firmly on the intricately carved gold on the back of her chair and subtly monitored her every move.

Isabelle wondered why there was so much pressure on the princess. True enough she was the King's only daughter but she was not his only child. If Clary had been his sole heir things would of course be different, but the king was acting as though there was some great matter hanging on the match. She had tried to voice this curiosity to Alec, but he remained stubbornly unconcerned. He insisted it was normal that His Majesty would want to see his daughter make a dazzling marriage, given she was the only girl he could use as a bargaining chip in a political alliance.

Beside her Kaelie turned her head so that the seed pearls in her headdress would catch the light as she smiled at some approaching courtier. She tossed her next sobering words out the side of her mouth carelessly, "Yes but you won't leave, even if your brother does. Not now you have a position with the princess. That means you're one of her ladies now regardless of who she marries."

A strange dread plunged to Isabelle's stomach at the realisation, then she hastily pushed her unease aside. That would not be true. There was no way Alec and Jace would leave her here. None at all.

It would be typical of her father though, to leave her at this bizarre, dull court until she made a bizarre, dull marriage and died here.

She could feel an indignant flush warm her cheeks at the very notion. "To hell with that." She muttered mutinously, swallowing back more alcohol defiantly before she shot an indecently seductive smile at a passing serving boy.

Mentally she resolved to add this entire ploy to the list of things she would never forgive her father for. Not that any of it mattered; she would say anything and do whatever it took to evade her father's blind ambition. Isabelle Lightwood had no intention of settling down like a good, boring girl and relinquishing what little freedom she had in exchange for marriage to some stranger her father had likely picked out to spite her. In the end, she was resolved to make her own fate.

A fate that seemed to become a growing impossibility. Following Kaelie's enthusiastic gaze she caught a familiar golden gaze and realised that Jace had after all decided to do his duty after all, trailing in as the last envoy to make his introduction to the princess. He even looked disappointingly sober as he lowered himself into a respectful bow. All of this was a pity because more often than not when Jace set his mind to do something he did it, and it seemed that wherever he had wandered all evening he had just set his mind to making Clarissa Morgenstern the future queen of France.

* * *

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* * *

Jace was quite certain he had ridden in jousts at risk of life and limb and it had been less dangerous than this. As he bowed before the King of Idris and his daughter he let go of the fleeting hope she wouldn't remember the boy who had flirted shamelessly with her and teased her about a lack of clothing.

" _Excellence_." He carefully straightened up and met her flat stare. Even her careful greeting could not fully disguise her surprised recognition, which was quickly settling into annoyance.

While the others had dined Jace had taken himself for a long walk through the courtyards and empty galleries to strategize in peace and had allowed himself to anticipate several possible scenarios. The first, and most unlikely he realised now, was that she would immediately turn to her father like the petulant child she had been when he had last known her and automatically complain of him. The alternative possibility was that she would fly off her chair and begin to attack him with whatever blunt instrument she could lay her hands on and he feared her heavy jewelled goblet could do significant damage. This was his greatest fear; the Lord had seen fit to give him a handsome face and he subsequently felt it was only good manners to try and preserve it, which he would fail to do if a certain Idrisian princess decided to beat it out of shape in an insulted temper.

Somehow it never came to blows, though one glance at her freezing smile banished whatever minuscule hope Jace had of her having forgiven his blasé flirtation on the basis of his most charming smile. He supposed he'd have to scrape out a pardon one way or another and the only place he could start was with a reverent kiss on the back of her little hand.

"Your Highness I must apologise."

"Apologise?" she demanded with obvious astonishment.

Jace could feel Valentine's keen gaze on him and he donned a perfectly winning smile, "I must confess I allowed myself to be convinced that the tales of your beauty had been much exaggerated. But my eyes now show me otherwise."

Clarissa Morgenstern emitted a wry little laugh and withdrew her hand, allowing Jace to rise and fully appreciate her expression of cool contemplation which bore a startling resemblance to her father's.

"I think you go too far, ambassador." A sweet smile of sharp triumph accompanied her words.

 _So that's how you want to play?_ Despite being fully aware that the sensible thing to do here was to bear the just reprimand in silence Jace couldn't bring himself to be humbled. There was something about her sharp tongue and proud wit that was all too familiar and he had no option but to respond in kind.

"My lady I do believe I could go further." She straightened up in her chair, he recognised this from their previous encounter as her automatic response to such audacious innuendo. Any other girl in her situation would likely have swept out of the conversation in affronted horror but true to form the princess determinedly squared her shoulders, showing she was about as prepared to surrender as Jace was.

"Your Excellency, there is no further you could go." The remark bit in and Jace had to stifle a smile. Each word the duo exchanged was so weighted with sarcasm he could imagine their discourse falling like stones through the floor.

"Perhaps you underestimate me." Becoming more aware than ever of the king's looming process he hastened to clarify, "In France I have developed an inexhaustible supply of ways to compliment a lady, I never did find a use for them until this evening."

Her nose twitched and an eyebrow raised marginally as she pierced through his shallow flattery.

Jace feigned a gasp as though something dreadful has just occurred to him, "Oh! I fear you think I have presumed too far! I must assure you I meant nothing more than kindness by my words! The intent was merely to express a heartfelt desire to praise you to many others besides Your Highness." Apparently this was enough to satisfy His Majesty who decided the section of the evening in which he had to deal with foreign diplomats had concluded and excused himself, moving to speak with one of his other courtiers. Clary and Jace regarded one another with matching stony stares for a long moment.

"It has grown late" The princess stated finally, as though the few minutes of Jace's company had already bored her immeasurably. "We should retire" she continued briskly, beckoning to her ladies. As the lady rose from her seat Jace was thoroughly amused to rediscover that however great a person she may be, Clary Morgenstern did not even reach his shoulder at full height.

Clearly Isabelle had relished the stand-off from her stance behind her mistress and was struggling to contain a grin as she passed by Jace. The girl beside her was the one he had been talking to earlier, Jace realised, offering her a belated smile which she received gratefully with a quick curtsey before falling in step behind the princess, who paused only to receive what was surely a fond goodnight from her father before she exited the hall.

The double doors swung promptly shut on the bright blue tail of her gown leaving Jace alone once again to assess the damage.

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

Isabelle didn't get far. No sooner had she reached the princess' chambers than she had run into Lady Penhallow who, being a Marchioness and one of the senior ladies had gained the unfortunate position of Chief Lady of the Bedchamber and the even more unfortunate responsibility of having to oversee all the other ladies. Isabelle had immediately been dispatched to the kitchens for some sobering fruit cordial. It appeared several of the girls had partaken of a tad too much wine at the feast. The poor marchioness was perpetually the lone voice of reason amongst a crowd of giddy girls.

Isabelle undertook her errand readily enough having been presumed to be more or less sober. It was always nice to know her years of wild living in France had left her with a useful set of skills, one of the most foremost being her retained ability to disguise a state of intoxication. Basking in her pride she didn't notice that she acquired a shadow until he stepped out from an alcove and blocked her path. The apparition of an unattended Jonathan Morgenstern before her left Isabelle too startled to curtsey.

He removed his cap and gave her an appreciative nod, "Lady Isabelle."

She wondered how in the name of God the Crown Prince of Idris knew who she was. "Your Highness" she dropped her head and sank into a delayed curtsey.

The prince had already noted her suspicion, "You really think I would feel the eyes of the prettiest girl at court on me at dinner and not procure her name?"

Isabelle met his eyes and allowed herself to take in the undoubtedly handsome face: the combination of clear, fair skin, straight nose and sharp cheekbones certainly marked him out as an aristocrat. His marble flesh reminded her of the busts of a Roman emperors she'd seen, calmly surveying the world he owned with a proud expression. The pale blond head and stormy dark eyes fell in perfect contrast and he seemed to be a good recreation of his father in his youth. All in all, he was far from difficult to look at.

"You flatter me." She spoke softly, causing him to lean forward slightly in order to catch her words. And not most flattered she had ever been; Isabelle was known to be a beauty and was more than capable of encouraging the advances of handsome men. Still, she had never attracted the attention of a royal before.

King Francois was an infamous womaniser but well over forty and she was not interested in being another in a long list of discarded mistresses. Then there was the other Francois, his son the Dauphin who was the right age and certainly fair enough of face, but his experiences as a prisoner of war in Madrid had left him a dourly dressed, solemn young man who wouldn't raise his eyes from a book long enough to notice any girl. Meanwhile his younger brother Henry, despite being just seventeen years old was already inseparable from his mistress Diane de Poitiers, a woman twenty years his senior. So as far as Isabelle was concerned an attachment to a Valois prince was only slightly preferable to the plague.

Rather unusually all the Morgenstern matrimonial hopes had been pinned on his younger sister and as far as Isabelle knew there was neither word of a betrothal nor an affair when it came to Jonathan. So she allowed herself to boldly meet his stare and gave him some consideration. She was after all determined to flirt her way shamelessly out of any marriage negotiations and she suspected even her father would struggle to find a willing bridegroom for a royal whore, even only a suspected royal whore. God bless the power of rumour.

Sensing the change Jonathan flashed his teeth at her in another smile, "Think kindly on me Lady Isabelle." He spoke in a low growl, making it sound like both an invitation and an instruction. Quickly, Isabelle grasped her skirts and swept off to one side, darting past the Prince and beginning her descent to the lower floors. She threw him one last glance over her shoulder and saw his smile had vanished though his eyes remained hungry. "You'll have to be much kinder than that if you expect kindness in return" she informed him loftily and then hurried down the stairs towards the heat of the kitchen.

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

The clatter of the pen against the ink pot filled the otherwise still air of the study while Jace raised his pen, considered a moment and then laid the nib against the paper for the third time. An angry black dot bloomed out from the point of contact and sprawled across the page like a bruise. Groaning in frustration he threw the writing implement down and snatched up the half-finished letter. He had been trying to phrase his thoughts into adequate words for over an hour and still he couldn't seem to finish his letter satisfactorily.

With the fading evening hours the meagre orbs of golden light from the surrounding candles grew in the descending gloom. Jace couldn't help but think of his rooms in Adamant, which were larger than those he had been granted to facilitate his studies at court. He tried to make do as much as possible, crowding every available surface including the window ledge with rolls of parchment and books.

They were his secret treasures. While Isabelle spent every spare ounce of gold on fine clothing and jewellery and Alec seemed to hoard his more or less every penny of Jace's wages and his grants from the Count went on his books, as they had done ever since he was a boy. The Lightwoods had laughed at him, hauling the most precious copies over the border with him and barking out strict orders on how they were to be treated every step of the way. But there was no way he'd go anywhere without them. In fact, he suspected that even now while he crouched over his blotted correspondence, he was surrounded by a small fortune in print. In his not so humble opinion the printing press had been mankind's greatest step forward since they'd discovered fire.

And for all that learning he still couldn't manage to finish one damn letter to the King of France. He had left the hall soon after the princess had, just like all the other envoys, yet he expected every other account of the lady herself had been dispatched long ago. Tonight Jace was struggling to convey his thoughts in a way he never had before. Perhaps the stress was getting to him. After all, even though he had represented his master very well abroad before he had been at the helm of an embassy himself. Moreover, this was not only his first but also his greatest solo mission and a real defining point in his career.

If Jace Herondale, at twenty one years old could successfully negotiate this marriage and bring King Francois the alliance he wanted for his son he would return to France in triumph and was sure to be granted a good position at the French court. And if the marriage went well he could likely expect even further rewards; royal influence was just a start, he could gain lands, possibly even a title. This really was a pivotal point in not only his career but also in his life.

It was alright for Alec and Isabelle who were guaranteed a future through their inheritances; Alec would succeed his father and Isabelle would (eventually) be secured a dowry and a husband. But Jace wasn't legally the Lightwood's son and however much he loved them like a family they could not give him anything. He had known he'd have to make his own way all his life, but by the time he'd turned sixteen Jace had realised the best way to shape his own life was through royal service.

Contrary to his Idrisian roots, actually _because_ of them he had chosen to serve the royal family in France instead of his home country and had within the space of a few short years come far.

Perhaps he had peaked too soon.

Here he was, supposedly having reached the pinnacle of his career as a successful diplomat and already he had let the Morgensterns get under his skin and ruin it for him. Resentment prickling in his veins Jace angrily shoved his hand into his hair and tried to swallow past the furious lump in his throat. Really he was as much to blame for his own obnoxious behaviour as they were but nonetheless it was exasperating. And dangerous. His father's fate was warning enough of what happened to Herondales who felt their reigning cousins treated them too unjustly.

But Stephen had been an idiot and Jace was not, therefore he refused to react again no matter how much it irked and pained him to watch Valentine parade around with the family that did not include the little boy he had sent away and forgotten long ago.

The personal conflict between himself and King Valentine he had expected but he had genuinely not anticipated this animosity with his daughter. From what he had heard Clarissa was supposed to be a malleable innocent fresh out of a convent, not the fierce and feisty girl he'd encountered.

Did he really hate her? Did he really hate any of them?

Not enough for him to decline the opportunity to return here when Francois had offered it to him at any rate. As if he could have refused. He tossed his head back and pressed the palms of his hands over his eyes. All of this was just his luck; he would spend years faithfully serving Francois in order to escape Valentine and for his reward he was sent back to Idris and Valentine. All the years he had spent running away and he'd only been chasing his own tail. His entire existence was one huge contradiction; the boy with royal blood and the taint of treason, whose only skill was the clever things he could say while his mouth was forever turning on him when he let his temper carry him off until he shot himself in the foot. Jace Herondale would forever be his own worst enemy.

Jace took in another forceful, steadying breath. Caution was what he needed to apply henceforth. Amusing as it was to spar with Valentine's daughter he couldn't afford to let any real resentment show and he had to be more careful how he handled her.

With a start he became conscious of how her sharp tongue and imperious manner was what he both liked most and loathed about her. He wanted to see her under a French canopy of state, but all the while he dreaded having to spend the rest of his life bowing to her and putting her words in the ear of whatever monarch she and her husband decided to send him to.

Jace forced his thoughts to return to the crumpled and stained attempt at a letter as he tossed it to the edge of the desk to join its predecessors. There had to be something he could say: _Your Grace, I am pleased to report that the princess is neither repugnant nor deformed as I had feared. I also am inclined to warn you sir that I feel she may find it her pleasure to have me knifed in my sleep. I wish you luck in your war against the Spanish. Your faithful servant, Jace Herondale._ He doubted that would suffice.

His fears took a solid form in a strained and nervous Alec stepping into the room after a rapid knock. Taking stock of Jace's hunched from he hastened over and gripped his friend's shoulder urgently, "What the hell did you do?"

"What makes you think I did anything?" Jace tried to look insulted.

"Isabelle left looking as though a host of angels had crowned her queen and Christmas had come early!"

"And so? Are you not pleased your sister is happy with my success?"

"Because she wouldn't be happy with your success" Alec stated slowly, blue eyes cloudy with foreboding. "Christ Jace, I thought I could at least rely on you to do this right? When so much depends-"

"I know all that!" Jace interrupted tersely. "And I am working on it!" He gestured to the heaped documents under his hands.

Alec swallowed and removed his cap, twisting it in his hands in his agitation. Finally he choked out a few garbled and reluctant words, "If you were to tell me what happened…perhaps I could…you know I spend time with the King…and he raised you, he would be sure to forgive…if I interceded…" .

"Alec, Alec you don't need to do that," Jace hastily soothed his friend, seeing how obviously uncomfortable Alec would be to have to address the king on his behalf. "It's not that bad. Just me and my mouth as usual. I have spoken out of turn with the princess and then been stubborn about it."

He sighed and ran his hands along his jawline before leaning his elbows on the desk. He rested his chin on his hands and emitted a short laugh. " I doubt that it's of any great consequence at any rate. It doesn't look as though she will complain to the king and in the end he will make the decision."

It was the truth, Clarissa was just a girl and every girl no matter how displeased or defiant would ultimately be governed by her lord.

"Whether she likes me or not her father rules her and her country, so if he wants her to be queen of France then that is what she will be."

 _-00000000000000-_

* * *

Rebecca Lewis' careful fingers drew through Clary's hair as she separated the heavy red strands for braiding like she had done every night for years. Even though she had several maids and ladies to wait on her now she still preferred to ask Rebecca for the more intimate duties, such as helping her prepare for bed. She had known Rebecca all of her life because her mother had been Clary's nurse and she had grown up with Simon and his sister. Clary's loved her like an older sister and as a consequence when Jocelyn had revealed her daughter was permitted, nay expected to bring a lady's maid to court with her Rebecca had been first choice for the position. Aside from that Rebecca had years of practise when it came to arranging Clary's unruly locks into something suitable, she was sure none of her other attendants could have managed that and it was always nice to see the Lewis' at court, they were the only comforts from home she could find in the palace's many winding corridors.

Once her hair had been secured in its customary plait Clary made her way towards the bed. As she approached it she came into contact with Isabelle Lightwood, who had just finished brushing her gown and plucked it off the bed as Clary drew near. The French girl had been unusually cheerful all evening and her fair features were still arranged in a smug expression.

"Would you sit with me a while Lady Isabelle" she requested softly, her curiosity roused.

"Of course Your Highness."

Thankfully the two girls had laid their initial hostility on the sidelines and managed to rub along quite well with only a moderate amount of friction. Clary had convinced herself that she would smooth things over with the French girl as they would be in one another's company constantly. This determination had seen her through and Clary had successfully gained her first unlikely court supporter. Thus their unofficial and unconventional arrangement had arisen, with Isabelle's expertise in such affairs she would help Clary get a husband that would not turn her stomach and in return Clary would help Isabelle avoid getting a husband of any kind.

The two girls had shared snippets of their past and had discovered that they were united in both a common contempt for court life and a scathing appreciation of the whole circus of power. So far they had been successful in their endeavour, Clary warned anyone who looked twice at Isabelle off her and Isabelle helped her look pretty and charming in front of the necessary people. A girl's powerlessness didn't mean to say there were no ways in which she could manipulate the system and it transpired Clary was a quick learner. Under Isabelle Lightwood's tutelage she was starting to see the wonders that a smile here and a promise there could do.

Presently Isabelle passed the garment to Rebecca who parted from them with a respectful curtsey and the two remaining girls pulled seats over to the huge fireplace opposite the foot of the bed. Clary stretched her fingers towards the glowing heat of the low flames and tried to arrange her thoughts into a set of coherent questions.

"You survived the feast," the other girl noted in an attempt to prompt her to do some thinking out loud.

"Just about. I don't think I managed to make a fool of myself."

Isabelle's black eyes reflected the dancing firelight as she surveyed Clary, "Can I ask what happened between you and Jace? I'm at a loss, you know. From what he's told me you were a child the last time he saw you and I doubt anyone could hold a grudge that long. What could he have possibly done, stolen your toys?"

Clary felt her brow crumple into a confused frown, "A grudge? How could I hold a grudge? I don't know anyone called Jace?"

Isabelle rolled her eyes impatiently, "the French ambassador you were so quick to put in his place? I think the king calls him Jonathan? To us he has always been Jace."

"Oh." Her agitation sparked. "That one," She acknowledged her comprehension reluctantly.

Clary was in no way willing to detail the events that had led to their paths crossing, not when she expected Isabelle would greet her account of a homesick girl creeping around in search of a friend in her nightclothes with a scolding. Sympathy was not in Isabelle's nature.

"Well we did meet briefly. It was long enough for him to all but call me a whore."

"He did that?" Isabelle demanded incredulously. Then understanding dawned, "He had no idea who you were and tried to sweet talk you into bed didn't he?"

"More or less" Clary told her shortly.

To her surprise her companion laughed throatily in response, "Well he's a man! What do you expect?" Her laughter finally lapsed into silence and she took the opportunity to lean in and catch Clary's wrist, pressing her lips close to her ear and whispering as though she was imparting state secrets; "They don't think with what is in their brains, but with what is in their breeches."

Clary jerked away as a hot wave of embarrassment rushed over her, "Isabelle!" she barked out a horrified reprimand.

"You're not in the convent now Clary!" her friend finally managed to speak past another outburst of her laughter which took a moment to pass. "Worse still he's a Frenchman, and at home it likely would have worked." She concluded drily, moving to pour them both some ale.

Clary sipped in silence for a while, working to replenish the warmth that the alcohol she'd drunk at dinner had lent her. Then her mind snagged on another of Isabelle's comments. "What do you mean I was a child the last time he saw me?"

The colour drained from Isabelle's cheeks as she threw a shocked glance at the girl beside her. "I told you he's Jonathan Herondale." She responded as though it settled the matter only for her surprise to deepen at Clary's blank stare.

"He grew up here, at court. In the royal nursery. _Your_ nursery."

Clary could only blink, astounded. "But-why?" she demanded.

Isabelle gave a languid shrug of her shoulders, "Well his father was a cousin of the king's and a Duke. I suppose Valentine took pity on him after his father died." She fixed Clary with a rather penetrating look. "You're telling me you honestly don't remember him?"

"No I…" Clary stuttered off into silence as a wheel of her jumbled childhood memories came back to her, memories of strong hands pulling her back to her feet when she had fallen, a hand unclasping to reveal stolen sweetmeats and a head full of blond curls bobbing before her as she clung to him, her arms around his neck as though she were a limpet and he a rock, carrying her on his back because her legs were too short for her to keep up with their games otherwise. And finally the clearest recollection of sharing a magic lantern with the golden haired boy.

She had always assumed it had been her brother Jonathan but she had since been reunited with her brother and was sure she had separate memories of him; the boy with hair like silver and eyes like onyx. Then she had doubted her memory, but now…

The more recent image of that bowed head of tangled bronze curls kneeling before her leapt unbidden to mind. It couldn't be and shouldn't be true, but she was suddenly sure it was.

Unthinking, she slammed her cup down on the table with a dull thump as metal struck wood.

Reeling, Clary cleared her throat roughly. "As a matter of fact he did steal my toys."

- _00000000000000-_

* * *

 **A/N: So it turns out Clary and Jace already have a history! Although we probably should bear in mind that Jace is somewhat older than Clary (again plot purposes, I wanted Jace to have experienced and achieved more things than a sixteen year old would have been able to at the time) so he will have more and clearer memories of her. I also just want to quickly point out that the hostility between Clace at this point is not entirely personal,** **but more because of what they represent to one another,** **in fact in terms of personality I hope I've managed to make the two seem quite alike. For Clary Jace is a constant reminder of the arranged marriage she doesn't want and is hardly treating her with very much sensitivity, but that's because for him Clary is a constant reminder of the family Jace never got to have. He sees her with Valentine and is jealous of their relationship; Valentine was ultimately the father figure of his formative years and he is bitter that he now has to miss out on having that relationship while it seems Clary does. He says it himself, he sees the Morgensterns together and he sees the perfect family that doesn't want him. Poor cinnamon buns. Whether or not they can get past all that, only time will tell (and my ability to type up what is in my head in a decent fashion before I die of old age will impact of course).**


	5. A Taste of Hell

**A/N: First and foremost I want to highlight that the end of the second last section of this chapter does include an execution scene, nothing extremely graphic or harrowing but it's best of you have a heads up. On a lighter note (pardon the pun) I also wanted to mention your comparison of this to Reign, a show which I have to confess I have watched the first season of, so I can see where you've picked up on the similarities. In fact, the little lantern toy I talked about earlier was in fact based on one a young Mary Stuart and the Dauphin Francis reportedly shared when they were children. To an extent yes Clary could be paralleled with a young Mary Queen of Scots given her headstrong personality but I personally feel from what I've read of Mary that Clary could lack the- dare I say it- arrogance and ambition that would get the poor Scottish queen in so much trouble later in life. I am to an extent modelling Clary more on another lady who was just about her contemporary but whose identity I will not reveal at this point because I feel such a revelation would be a spoiler, you'd see where I am steering Clary as a character and the sort of bother she's going to get herself in or not get herself in as the case may be. ;) Finally on the subject of Jace's reading habits, all I'm willing to say is watch this space, one has to wonder what was in circulation at this point in time and wonder what it is exactly he's reading... **

* * *

_Chapter 4: A taste of Hell_

 ** _Early May 1536, the Gard, Alicante_**

As usual, Simon was the last to know. Everyone else knew exactly the state of affairs by the time first mass was over but oh no, it took until well after dinner for anyone to see fit to tell him.

"D'you reckon he'll pack her off to some nunnery? Or will it be some creaky old castle with a damp problem like he did with the last one?" Eric asked him as they walked back towards the princess' rooms from their own meal. Simon just frowned at his fellow musician in the hope that would lead to an explanation. "We're taking wagers, me and the other boys. Matt swears she'll pitch herself out the Tower window before she'll let him send her away. That other boy with the harp swears nothing will happen her at all and that's why they say she's locked up laughing."

"What in God's name are you talking about?" Simon demanded, his patience snapping.

Eric shifted the weight of his own lute on his shoulder and blinked at him in astonishment. "The English King? He's finally grown tired of that whore he insisted on crowning."

"Got tired of? What the hell does that mean?"

"Well he's done with her. Had his beloved Queen Anne packed off to the Tower of London hours after he sat beside her at a mayday joust! Now she's locked up there laughing and crying and we're all waiting to see what it is he's going to do with her. I don't care what that Kirk lad has to say there's no way she'll be back as queen. I heard he's already got another wife lined up."

"But he can't just get rid of her! She's his wife!"

Eric snorted "Aye and so was the last poor lady until he decided otherwise. If Henry wants her gone she's gone. And the things he's having said about her, when month ago they'd have had your tongue out for saying her nose was too long! These days I'm hearing her calling a witch and a whore and everything in between. A whole host of men locked up with her too." He peered at his companion suggestively.

Simon shook his head disbelieving, "That can't be true. He split from Rome and risked war with the Emperor to have her. He wouldn't go to all that bother only to set her aside."

"Well it's true" Eric insisted, wickedly mournful.

With each passing day Clary's rooms got more and more full, a growing inconvenience now that the court had moved into the smaller royal apartments of the city Gard. The two boys had to push their way through a crowd and wave their instruments to the men at the doors to her privy chambers to get past. Now that Clary had been fully acknowledged by her father she was becoming a very public person, which left her hard pushed to find places for all the young ladies who wanted a space in her train and struggling to find reasons to push petitioners away. Her father had strictly commanded her to avoid all requests; while she was to be every inch the princess when it came to foreign policy and marriage prospects the King did not want her listening to any pleas or interfering in court affairs.

Clary had borne the frustrating and contradictory request in silence but Simon could tell she was inwardly seething. She hated having to pretend indifference when in reality all her mother's gruelling lesson's had supplied her with a more than competent set of skills to help her deal with the troubles of her countrymen. Jocelyn must have always anticipated her daughter's recall to the capital and had raised her accordingly; Simon was firmly of the opinion his friend had ample wit to tackle anything thrown at her in these palaces, she was merely lacking the confidence and the chance.

Today there was undoubtedly a subdued atmosphere among the women in Clary's inner rooms and it seemed that the uproar at the English court was the topic on everyone's tongue.

Simon moved to take up his usual position in the corner, catching Clary's eye with a nod as he waited for her command to begin playing. To his surprise, upon spying him Clary promptly laid the book she was reading aside and beckoned for him to approach her. Laying down his lute with confused curiosity, Simon moved to follow his friend away from her attendants and to an alcove by one of the windows.

"You've heard?" she enquired once they had their modicum of privacy, "About Anne Boleyn, that is?"

"Only just. Why am I always the last to hear these damned things?"

Clary tutted impatiently at his irritation, "Well I heard yesterday." Her hands drifted to smooth over the rope of pearls her mother had given her, Simon had noticed that in the past few weeks it had become a nervous habit of hers. But she seemed particularly agitated today, her white skin even paler than usual against the deep forest green of her gown and gold embroidery.

"King Henry is going to kill his wife Simon. He's accused her of having half his court and magically seducing him into an unjust union." She paused, nibbling on her lower lip in thoughtful apprehension. Then she loosed a brief, bland laugh that startled him, simultaneously beating out a frantic rhythm on the patterned carpet under her tapping foot. "That's what a woman's desire is to men, is it? Dark magic?"

"I'm sure Henry had his reasons-" Simon began uneasily, astounded at the strength of her feeling. He hadn't seen her wound up like this is a long time, and quite frankly he failed to see why she would invest so much anxiety in something irrelevant happening far away.

"Had his reasons?" Clary barked incredulously "You honestly think she entered into the sin of adultery with five other men? She lived like me, Simon!" She flung an arm behind her, gesturing to the busy room surrounding them, "where would she find the time, let alone the privacy?" Tugging at the stones looped around her neck once again, Clary suddenly sank into the window seat, the strength of her panic flooding out of her and heat pouring to her cheeks. "She lived like me Simon" She repeated, her eyes boring into his.

Eventually Simon understood and moved to the seat beside her, "Clary…" She shook her head, refusing to let him soothe her distress.

"Oh Henry had his reasons alright. She miscarried his son you know, less than four months ago. Because a queen is nothing without a prince and nothing is easily disposed of. He despaired of ever getting a prince from her so he invented some lies so hard to believe no one would think to disbelieve them.

'This is the woman he has loved to distraction for years, who he swore he would do anything for and promptly changed the world to suit her. Now he's going to have her killed, and put one of her ladies in waiting in her place". She spoke rapidly over her friend's stuttered protestations, "You mark my words Simon there's no way she'll survive this. They have yet to try her but I'll wager he's already signed the warrant for her execution.

'And what does that mean for me? She was the wife of a king and they still destroyed her. A queen is meant to be untouchable but that won't stop them taking her life. What will make me safe, when I'm the wife of a king?"

"Clary, Clary!" Simon clutched at his friend's wrists to stop her wildly wringing hands, "That could never happen to you! Listen to me; not every man in Christendom is Henry Tudor! And Anne Boleyn is a friendless commoner, you are a princess by blood and no one would ever harm you for fear of insulting your father. Being locked away in these rooms isn't good for you, I know you want to avoid attention but I believe a walk on the green will clear you head. Come along.""

He had meant to calm her but his comforts only served to inflame her further, she snatched her hands cack from his immediately, evidently unconvinced by his assurances. "Being of the Princess by blood did not save Katherine of Aragon when her loving husband decided he could send her away and swear she had never been his wife at all. And there are plenty of men like Henry Tudor." She gave another shallow laugh, a sound completely devoid of any amusement, "You of all people should take more heed Simon. One of those men they accused with her, Mark Smeaton? The one I hear they're currently twisting a confession out of in the torture chamber? This time last week he was her musician."

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

Carefully Valentine Morgenstern inspected the glimmering edges of the broach in the light filtering through the chamber's narrowly arched window. Lips slowly coiling into a smile he lowered the gift and nodded his mild approval to the young diplomat before him. "You must tell your master I express my sincere thanks for his gift."

Raphael Santiago bowed graciously in response, seemingly unfazed by the somewhat frosty response of the King of Idris and the presence of his apathetic son, who was thoroughly engrossed in whatever was happening beyond the window.

"Your Majesty, both King Maximillian and his brother the Holy Roman Emperor are eager for your friendship to continue to grow."

"And his supplies of gunpowder" Jonathan muttered under his breath, just below earshot of the Spanish Ambassador. It was no secret that the Emperor Charles was primarily keen for a friend like Idris to assist in the latest of his protracted (and to Jonathan's eyes tedious) squabble with France over Milan and Northern Italy. Not that the threat of looming war was acting as a deterrent for the head of the Idrisian Church, Cardinal Enoch, who openly favoured the Imperial match.

"And we have so much in common already, like the strength in the ties of our faith for a start and our zeal in protecting it." Santiago reminded His Majesty silkily, with a pointedly subtle incline of the head to his ally in clerical scarlet. Enoch's gaunt white face leaned towards his King with encouragement so quickly that the jewel crusted crucifix at his chest thumped the back of Valentine's throne and clattered there with each eager breath. Jonathan seized the chance distraction to release the yawn he had been holding back for so long.

He had long wearied of watching these diplomats, especially watching them play the Catholic card as though it were not the ace that several other parties were also holding. While Jonathan could admit to a personal admiration for the Spanish methods of ensuring the devotion of their people to the Catholic Church and he relished the prospect of a similar Inquisition taking flight in earnest in Idris, even Santiago was failing to make the pursuit of infidels and heretics preferable to the observance of the group of young ladies currently filtering out into the greenery outside.

Seeing that the King's audience was coming to its natural, supercilious end the prince peered out the thick panes of the tower window once again in earnest. His sister had finally made an appearance for the day. Truthfully Jonathan felt that Clarissa's stilted adjustment to life at the centre of court, albeit right at the heart of his kingdom, should be beyond his interest. That being said, he could not help but have his eyes follow her when she entered a room, monitoring her every move as though he may catch a glimpse of something he recognised. This sister he had seen so little and heard even less of was one of the few enigmas in Jonathan Morgenstern's life and consequently he relished the thought of tearing her apart, cracking her open like one of those new intriguing machines and surveying the cogs within in comparison with those that he might find in himself. Sadly, the opportunity had yet to present itself as the princess still preferred to keep to herself and to her own rooms, even now that they had moved to the Gard. If the King's court was the beating heart of Idris then the Gard was arguably the beating heart of Alicante but Clarissa showed no interest in any of that, or rather Valentine had no intention in letting her have any interest in any of that. With her little form determinedly climbing the set of steps over the green as though they were the Alps Jonathan sensed a certain impatience fuelling those swift, irritated steps and wondered if he could not help the opportunity he had been waiting for present itself.

Raphael's dismissal and the Cardinal's tactful departure forced him to return to his present situation. Valentine rose and removed himself to the private rooms behind the presence chamber, tossing the gifted broach on the table before him with a soft scoff while turning to face the son who had followed him expectantly. "If we did not know better that Santiago would be convincing."

Jonathan lifted a solitary brow, "Even with such shameless bribes?"

"And bribe he might as well! Now that Francois has allied with the Turks Charles will have a fleet of Ottoman ships causing him real trouble in Italy before the year is out." The fat, milky pearl on the table top shone despondently at the prospect.

"So it is preferable to side with Francois and his hoard of heathens?"

Valentine spread his arms and leaned forward on the palms of his hand, over the requested papers that had been laid out there for his attention. His Majesty's mind never stayed on one matter for very long. Nonetheless, his father lifted his gaze and scrutinised Jonathan at the comment "Ah, you have become most defensive of your faith of late."

Jonathan forced himself to return the stare with equal boldness, wondering if Valentine was being sarcastic. "At least France is willing to offer us a Prince." The King reminded him, "Whereas the Emperor is quick to involve his brother and would have Clarissa palmed off on his nephew instead, apparently Idris is not so desirable an alliance and so your sister is not good enough to for his own heir, nor good enough for a future Empress."

Good God. Of course not. Only a lunatic would presume that little Idris, who just about managed to hold her independence and monarchy would ever be regarded on anything close to equal footing with the might of Spain and the Roman Empire combined. Only a lunatic or a man like Valentine Morgenstern, it seemed, whose ambition clearly knew no bounds.

"Of course it is preferable that we wed her to France and see ourselves in a position of power immediately rather than see her confined to the nursery and wait for that boy prince of Maximilian's to come of age and of use." The King fluttered the sheets before him with agitation great enough for Jonathan to refrain from commenting further. After a moment Valentine calmed slightly and continued to mutter to himself, only half speaking to Jonathan. "However we are not about to reject the Hapsburg's out of hand. They are, we must remember, the most powerful dynasty on this continent."

"So they have no chance?"

"Yes they have a chance! The situation in Italy could change in a heartbeat, or Maximillian could die within a month of the wedding and make that boy a King and your sister a queen along with him! That is much better than Dauphine!"

Jonathan shook his head in exasperation, "Her marriage will always carry a risk, Sire."

"Every move carries risk. And with such high stakes…" his thoughts trailed off into silence and left the prince stunned. Nothing more than an alliance hung on his sister's wedding, did it not? Before he could voice his confusion he was being waved away, Valentine looking unusually perturbed upon observing his lingering presence. "You may go Jonathan."

"Go? We are finished for today?"

"Pangborn!" his father yelled in response, summoning the secretary from whatever damp corner he lurked in when he was not shuffling around in the King's footsteps. Jonathan happily retreated to the door, wise enough to know better than to challenge this opportune early freedom.

Opportune indeed.

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

"I did not steal the horse, Princess."

Clarissa Morgenstern only scowled, utterly determined to see him persecuted.

"You did!" came another shrill accusation, "He was my little ivory horse, with the carved mane and painted hooves and saddle. He was my absolute favourite and I adored him but you insisted on stealing him away."

Jace snatched in a brief breath and tried to embellish his defence but she was relentless, turning her proud cheek to him and pointedly focusing on where some of her ladies were rambling with their puppies on the lawn. "I don't see how you can expect us to be friends when you refuse to admit that you stole my Snowy."

The ambassador rolled his eyes and ran his fingers over the fur trimmed edges of his coat, "If the best name you could come up with was Snowy, I daresay I did the poor fellow a favour."

That earned him another cutting glare, but at least it made her look at him.

"I must say, I preferred it when you were insulted by a real insult."

She scoffed, "Careful _Excellence,_ you are far from forgiven for that. This is just another way you have wronged me."

She truly was in stormy spirits today. There had been similar taunts about his past misdemeanour ever since they had left Princewater Palace and the princess had recognised her old playmate, yet presently she seemed to truly be in bad temper. The real cause of her upset had thus far eluded Jace but she was certainly using his past grievance as an outlet. Unfortunately he was not the only one who seemed to have noticed this , that insufferable musician she seemed to take comfort from was immovable at her shoulder, albeit without his instrument, and the signs of her aggravation swiftly brought Alec gliding over.

"Is all well, Your Highness?" Blue eyes scanned Jace and he discovered he was quite sick of accusatory looks.

"No. Monsieur Herondale refuses to admit to his malicious crimes." She declared, but she seemed to have moved from real affront to mirth once again. These mood swings were starting to make him feel dizzy.

The jest however, escaped Alec. "What have you done?" he spun on his best friend, "Apologise to the lady at once!"

Jace smirked in response, "Would that I could, but I sadly have no recollection of the horse theft."

"You. Stole. A. Horse?" Alec demanded in slow, dawning horror. Jace gave a sombre nod, and out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed the princess raising a sleeve to her mouth as she visibly fought laughter.

"I am accused" he corrected blandly, "I have no memory of the event. "

Alec looked as though he were on the verge of consciousness, "Holy mother of God! How drunk were you?" He snatched at Jace's arm and cast his eyes around for an escape route. "They'll hang you. And when Mother and Father find out I let it happen then they'll kill me. And then we'll both be dead because of you. Christ have mercy, why do you _always_ get us killed!"

"Peace, my lord!" Clarissa choked out eventually, sympathy quenching her amusement, although her eyes still held a soft sparkle. "He only stole my toy horse. I cannot hang him for that."

Alec swayed on the spot and then looked at Jace as though he might strike him. Then, remembering he was in the presence of a lady he took a decisive step backward, although Jace's ears already ached from the future lecture and possible blows he would surely receive.

Now that all nerves were suitably soothed the princess was quick to return to the heart of the matter, "Admit it."

"I cannot remember any fault" he reasserted stubbornly.

"If I can remember it you must be able to, you are older than me."

"You make it sound as though I am ready for a walking stick" Jace complained.

She snorted, "You're able bodied enough to steal my favourite toys."

"How do you sleep at night?" that damned musician interjected, somehow finding the audacity to narrow his eyes at Jace in affected disgust. On any other occasion he would have taught the insolent commoner a lesson for speaking out of turn, but as he stood beside Clarissa and she was openly laughing now there was no opportunity. He wasn't going to spoil her mood again when they were now getting on relatively well, in between barbed words and subtle jabs. He didn't know if the two of them would ever like one another, but at least they were now only at each other's throats every _other_ second.

It seemed that not only were his talks with the king finally starting to head in the right direction but Valentine's positive consideration of the French suit also had the benefit of securing him more quality time with the princess. Time he was supposed to be spending filling her emerald sporting ears with good words on the heir to the Valois throne. However more often than not Jace found himself allowing the conversation to stray from the Dauphin and into whatever silly or interesting thing Clarissa Morgenstern had on her mind currently, which today appeared to be Snowy the vanishing horse.

Beneath their vantage point on the sloping stone steps the young ladies of the court laughed with delight as one of their carefully trained lapdogs mastered another perfect trick. Thankfully their mistress showed no interest in frolicking about with them, which was probably a wise decision. All of them looked a touch ridiculous, cooing over a bunch of spoiled fur balls.

Isabelle meanwhile, had found another kind of dog to play with, engrossed as she was in what was sure to be a fascinating conversation with Raphael Santiago, the Spanish Emperors' ambassador. If he was hoping to wriggle some information on the princess' habits and personal goings on in her rooms he could not have picked a worse informant. Isabelle had learnt from the best courtiers in Europe the most tactful ways to keep her mouth shut, and had been rehearsed in presenting flattering lies as soon as she could talk. But she was smiling prettily at Santiago throughout her evasion, so Jace suspected her interrogator would not be entirely disappointed.

As ever, he couldn't go long without letting his gaze stray to the hulking, bleak stone structure of what the common folk were in the habit of calling the Black Tower. Only its peak was visible from the lawns and buildings around the royal lodgings. The Gard served the purpose of both palace and prison but apparently the kings of Idris did not like to dwell on the fact that those who had been caught threatening their rule were lodged at the other end of the building, however brief their stay.

Of all the Gard's rooms and turrets Black Tower had the most morbid fame, it housed the most sinister criminals and it was well known that once you were a prisoner held there you would only ever leave by way of the axe or sword. For the past three centuries it had held the worst of Idris' murderers and traitors.

Some twenty one years ago it had held Stephen Herondale.

Jace wondered what it must have been like for him. He knew that as a noble his father would have been housed comfortably, though he couldn't begin to imagine how it must feel to look out of your window every morning and into the courtyard where they were building your scaffold. It had surely felt like a manner of hell on earth, or some kind of deliberate punishment from the king to force a final cry of repentance.

Had Stephen squinted out from the mere slide of heavy glass onto the stage provided for his death and thought of his wife and unborn child? Or were his thoughts in his final days devoted to the king he had once called his friend?

More than anything he longed to stop dwelling on his father's demise but Jace doubted that a single day in his life had gone by without something drawing his attention to his parents in some way. Only in his earliest childhood had he been ignorant of their spectacular fall from grace. Now years had passed by and it seemed Stephen's treason was the inescapable guilt he had been born to and could never grow out of. The waters smudged on his brow at baptism may have washed away original sin, but they could not cleanse him of his name.

Staring up at the tower he felt the usual chill creep over his skin and wished to God he would soon far away from this godforsaken place.

A sudden disturbance amongst the girls on the green unexpectedly caught Jace's attention, they were now hastily rearranging themselves and donning their most becoming expressions as they each sank into their obeisance. Finally they parted to reveal the form of Jonathan Morgenstern striding across the neat grass towards the steps his sister had placed herself on.

He gave her a bow and a smile before sweeping an unimpressed glance on her companions. "Clarissa." He spoke softly and sweetly before reluctantly turning his attention aside, "Lord Alexander Lightwood" he lowered his chin slightly in acknowledgement "and Monsieur Herondale, isn't it?"

Jace managed a terse agreement, deliberately holding his most bland expression, "Highness."

"Nice for us all to be together again isn't it?" Jonathan proclaimed, full of apparent joy. "I must profess it's all rather unexpected! Here I am, a king in waiting while Clary's a royal bride in waiting and you- " he paused for dramatic effect, teeth flashing as he smiled at Jace and as dark eyes danced over bright, "a diplomat. And a French one, no less!" He shook his head in satisfied disbelief,"Whoever would have guessed?"

He directed the last remark at Clary as he reached out to grasp her small hands and clutched them before his chest, creating the perfect tableau of the Morgenstern siblings. When the tender moment passed Jonathan continued with his ardent praise of his sister and Jace was left trying not to glare too obviously at the Prince's scarlet clad back.

Message received: 'there is us by the throne, and then there is you on the outskirts, in the dust.' Jace momentarily entertained the childish vision of himself shoving Jonathan's meaningfully turned back so hard he would be pitched over the stone wall and smash onto the ground below, taking his sister with him.

There would be kind of justice to that; a Herondale spilling Morgenstern blood on the same ground Morgensterns had spilt Herondale blood on.

"Come now, it is wrong that we should live under the same roof and see so little of one another" Jonathan was currently lamenting to his sister, who was looking up into her older brother's face with curiosity.

Jace supposed it must be strange to come face to face with the brother you remembered so little of after so many years. He quickly quelled the beginnings of any pity he felt for her; he strongly suspected that even if she did feel she deserved it, having been flung into the midst of strangers who were going to plan out her life for her, Clary Morgenstern would spit in the face of his pity.

As though his thoughts had reminded her of his presence Clarissa tilted her head to the side as her attention flitted between the prince and her other companions.

The Crown Prince on the other hand wouldn't spare them so much as a second glance, "You can leave us now." Jonathan's imperious dismissal rolled of his tongue and over his shoulder with ease and smacked Jace square in the chest. That was one of the things about Jonathan Morgenstern Jace had always hated most: he seemed to be in a constant state of forgetting he wasn't wearing a crown yet. Jace wondered if he wasn't starting to regret not having murdered the pair of them when he had been presented with the chance.

Now they had no option but to remove themselves and the rest of the small party made their reluctant descent into the yard below. The lute player lingered at the bottom of the steps while Jace kept moving, pulling Alec with him on his hurried journey on, trying and failing to get out from under the shadow of that tower.

 _-0000000000000000-_

* * *

The barge surged over another swollen wave and Clary automatically felt her hands fly out to the smooth wooden sides to steady herself.

"Are you alright?" her brother asked her with a half-smile.

"Yes. I'm just not accustomed to water travel" she muttered back past her mortification. Clary wished she could recline back on the embroidered cushions provided and look every inch the royal the way Jonathan did but at the moment she was too preoccupied with her imminent drowning to death to make very much of an effort to look stately.

Thoroughly unconcerned with their vessel's distressing rocking, her brother flipped a corner of the barge's curtains aside to peer out onto the river. "Forgive the secrecy, but our father would be beyond displeased if we were to be spotted. Well, if _you_ were to be spotted."

Instead they struggled downtown with the tide in what was not the more comfortable and probably safer royal barge because Jonathan had insisted it would be immediately recognised.

"Why all the secrecy?" Clary demanded.

"Because His Majesty has likely has a whole state entrance planned for you. Just as he has everything planned for you, and he won't have a second of it done otherwise, or a single detail overlooked."

Clary blanched at the mention of a state entrance. In her mind that entailed a great deal of people staring and a procession which would provide a great deal of opportunities for her to fall flat on her face and seal her disgrace of the whole family name.

To her relief Jonathan laughed, "I am joking Clarissa. About the state entrance anyway. At least I think I am." He muttered the end of the sentence a touch sourly and ventured another look out from behind the curtains drawn around them which coated everything in a greenish light.

"Call me Clary" she requested on impulse.

"Why?"

She wanted to say _because the king is the only person to have called me Clarissa in my life and I am quite certain he hates me_ but she felt that would be inappropriate, so instead she shrugged and replied, "I've always been Clary."

"Clary" her brother sounded it out experimentally.

"Why does the king have so many plans for me?" She fully expected that Jonathan would know, he was always with the King when he was at court and he had many friends to fill him in anything he missed while he was absent. He was certainly the best informed person at court, Clary even suspected the King had some plans only Jonathan knew about and she desperately wanted to know if any of them involved her.

"I don't know" Jonathan deadpanned gloomily, much to Clary's surprise, "He insists he only has one plan and that is to find you a husband." He looked so bitterly downcast that she trusted he was telling the truth. "Personally I fail to see why he'd want to make so much of a daughter he's going to pack off in a few months."

Blunt as his speculation was, and flatly as he stated the prospect of her imminent exile Clary knew it all to be true. Once they found her a suitable foreign husband she would be sent abroad and would likely never return home again. "Perhaps that's why he wants to make such a fuss, because he is sending me away. This could be the last he'll ever see of me. "

Clary realised that the possibility of never seeing her father again unsettled her. He was both the biggest and smallest part of her life: she had always been the daughter of the king of Idris and that had decreed how her life would be lived from the second she had been born, but as person he had barely spent more than a few hours total with her in almost sixteen years. That was what made her most uncomfortable, the thought of leaving without ever really knowing her father, or he ever truly knowing her. She supposed in a way she would forever be haunted by the father she'd never had.

"Perhaps" her brother didn't seem convinced. "I think it's because you remind him of Mother. He has a portrait of her that he keeps to himself in his rooms. It must have been painted soon after they married, she is not much older than you in it. And you are an almost perfect likeness."

That genuinely shocked her. Jocelyn had almost never spoken of Valentine, and when she had Clary had always gotten the distinct sense she was picking her words with the utmost care. She had always struggled to comprehend what had happened between her parents, from what little Jocelyn had to say of her estranged husband it all held the heavy implication that she hated him and had to watch her words because of how dangerous it was to hate a king. Clary had always lived under the assumption that the feeling was mutual and that was why the King had his palaces swept clear of any signs of the woman's existence.

Could it be possible that he still loved her? That in truth the memory of her and their ruined relationship was too painful for him to dwell on? That in embracing their only daughter with all the pomp and ceremony he could afford he was trying to repair the damage done some ten years ago and reconcile with his wife?

If that was his hope Clary feared he would be sorely disappointed, when Jocelyn truly turned her heart against you nothing in the world could make her turn it back . Yet somehow the possibility made her father seem more…human. The thought of her father being governed by his emotions was disconcerting and comforting in equal measures, and above all difficult to believe.

"Whatever his reasons we can't resist him." Jonathan closed the subject with far from cheerful resignation. Then the dark cloud over his mood lifted and he grinned at Clary again with devilish conspiracy, " Well at least not on the bigger matters.".

"Would he be terribly angry if he found out we left the Gard?"

"Yes" her brother told her simply "which is why we must make sure he doesn't find out."

Despite herself Clary couldn't stop smiling back. This forbidden excursion reminded her of the times she and Simon had pilfered the orchards surrounding the convent and brought the breathless, swelling excitement of their previous mischief flooding back to her.

"Besides it is a far greater crime to keep such a pretty girl cooped up!" Jonathan continued, "Even the loveliest of birds will lose its nice plumage if it is not allowed to stretch its wings every once in a while. And it would be a terrible shame if you were to stay in the heart of your capital city and not see any of it!"

Clary wholeheartedly agreed. After weeks of being locked up looking at the same faces every day she was desperate for some kind of diversion. Worse than that, she couldn't settle into her new life of noble idleness. All through her girlhood at the convent she'd always had some kind of task to carry out for the nuns, or would be at her lessons with her mother. Now that there was none of that to occupy her she struggled to find any contentment in the menial occupations a woman of her station was supposed to pursue. In fact she could practically feel her brain shrivelling up with every line she stitched.

So when Jonathan had offered her an outing into Alicante she'd leaped at the chance. It hadn't taken much persuasion for her to plead a headache to her ladies and disappear into her privy chamber for a 'lie down' only to creep out again minutes later with Jonathan. She supposed she would suffer the rather treacherous voyage in what was not the royal barge for a few hours of freedom in the city.

Her optimistic spirit fled and Clary started once again as the barge collided with something solid without warning.

"Be calm! We've just docked!" her brother reassured her with some amusement. Clary nodded and swallowed her heart back into her stomach, silencing the hysterical 'Hail Mary' she had launched into mentally in the hope of divine salvation.

Taking a few rallying breaths Clary stood up and quickly brushed down her skirts. Beside her Jonathan also rose from his seat and after a short consultation with the boatman offered her his arm with another pleasant smile. "Let's go see our city."

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

The next few hours passed swiftly, too swiftly. Quickly as the time passed it was thoroughly well spent; Clary couldn't remember the last time she had enjoyed herself like this. It definitely made a pleasant change to walk down streets where no one knew her name, or stopped and whispered when the saw her.

In Alicante there was plenty to see and do as they were winding their way through streets of wood and stone, watching the sun sink behind the thatched roofs and stony steeples or the boundless variety of people. Clary's ears were filled with the wild sounds of horses clopping, woman gossiping, men brawling and dogs barking while vendors fearlessly hollered their wares over everyone else's noise. Above it all the bells of so many churches rolled out a seemingly constant chiming, providing the pulsing and soaring song of city life. Her eyes were also ensnared, between the modest homespun garb of servants and workers and the glamorous colours and cuts of more costly garments Clary's head swung like a pendulum, not knowing where to look.

Meanwhile her nostrils were assaulted by the smells of sweating horses, human filth and the appetising aroma of some of the bakeries and food sellers. Seeing her enthrallment Jonathan bought her one of the pies, which was so hot and fresh that it burnt her fingers and practically melted in her mouth. .

Her brother then hired them a litter and took her to Angel Square to see the huge statue of their supposed ancestor Raziel catch the light in his tarnished bronze surfaces and pointed out to her the steeple of Christ Cathedral; where the kings of Idris were crowned in its Chapel Royal and laid to rest in its crypt. He even took her by the river to see the alabaster and marble curve of the buildings where the Clave would sit to discuss and pass the king's laws. He was generous too, laughing at her heated decline of his offer to take her to the tailors and instead bought her a selection of sweetmeats and indulged her request to visit the printers, where he purchased for her a promising new read.

It was a pleasant change, to not have to worry that all eyes were on her or stress about any upcoming social events and presentations. This afternoon was the closest she had come to being carefree in what felt like a very long time, and Clary found it possible to pretend she were just an ordinary girl on the cusp of sixteen enjoying a day out shopping and sightseeing with her brother, a brother who was not the future King of Idris. She could even forget about the fact that in the very near future she would have to leave this country possibly forever, to marry whichever king or prince had been chosen for her while the uncertain fate of Anne Boleyn stood starkly before her as a reminder of just how vulnerable and precarious that future would be. It all just seemed like a surreal and distant dream when there were the more immediate and tangible events of life in a lively city playing out right before her eyes.

Jonathan, who had just been engaged in an animated discussion with a solemn looking man returned to the litter and beamed up at Clary, a new excitement iridescent in the charcoal depths of his eyes. "That was one of Blackwell's men I just spoke to. I know it's getting late but there's one last thing I wanted you to see and we're in luck. One last stop at Domaine de Cendres."

"Domaine de Cendres?" Clary echoed the strange name. Jonathan merely nodded with another mysterious smile, shot out more orders and then they were on the move again. Even with her limited knowledge of the outlay of Alicante Clary could see that their destination appeared to be on the edge of the city, where the buildings gave way to what looked like some sort of green, not unlike the one in Gard only much bigger and much more crowded. She dismounted the litter with some assistance from Jonathan, who hastily paid for and dispatched their transport before firmly gripping his younger sister's arm.

"We're late." He remarked with some disappointment, "No matter. Come on"

"Late for what? Jonathan, where-" Clary was cut off by a brisk tug as Jonathan towed her along while he skirted the crowd, looking for something or someone and far too preoccupied to give her any answers. The assembled people were just as impatient as her brother, shoving and cursing around Clary, but thankfully Jonathan's grip on her was as tight as shackles and eventually he seemed to catch the attention of whoever he had been searching for; a stout bald man gave the prince a thrilled wave and beckoned for some men at arms to assist them. Soon they were surfacing from the throng and Clary greedily gulped in a lungful of fresh, cool air as she was steered onto a kind of makeshift platform.

"Your Highness! I was led to believe you would not be attending."

"Aldertree" Jonathan greeted their new companion with a brisk nod, "I happened to be in the area, too close to miss it."

"Excellent, my lord" Aldertree enthused, his attention turning to Clary as she knew it eventually would. "And who might this lady be? I am sure you look familiar my dear, I just can't place a name."

"It doesn't matter who she is" her brother interjected, staring off with an expression of obvious impatience. "It should have started by now." As if in response to his complaint the crowd coursed forward with renewed vigour for whatever was about to occur, chanting and bellowing.

Clary strained her eyes in an attempt to trace the epicentre of the commotion. Then she realised that from where she was standing she had a fairly clear vision of what seemed to a series of poles. Three of them, assembled in a rough circle and all pointing towards heaven, surrounded by rubbish and spare bits of wood and kindling. Comprehension sank through her as an icy weight on her chest that crushed every breath her lungs tried to take and finally settled in her stomach.

"Jonathan" she turned to her brother, her voice strained and indistinct, "I don't want…" she trailed off as she realised how futile her pleas were, her brother was deaf to anything she had to say focused entirely as he was on the grotesque scene unfolding before them.

The noise and commotion peaked as there was some movement around the foot of the stakes. A group of rough soldiers hauled the guilty forward while the crowd fidgeted in a violent frenzy of weeping, swearing and jeering.

There were three of them, shapeless sacks in the substitute of clothing covering their starved and broken limbs and each had their heads pitifully shorn. Two had the appearance of being male but the third, oh dear god the third was a girl, scarcely older than Clary herself.

Breathlessly bordering on hysteria the princess clutched at her brother "Jonathan!" she pleaded with a quiet wail.

"Be quiet! He hissed at her, shaking her arm off anxiously, "I want to hear them scream!" Clary's stomach capsized at his words but her eyes couldn't be wrenched from the horror unfolding before her.

None too gently the accused were thrown against their piece of wood and briskly secured with ropes. As though they could run, none of the poor wretches looked fit to stand unaided! One of the men was frantically muttering to himself what in what must have been prayer while the other wept unashamedly and with complete abandon, but the girl was stony eyed and utterly silent as she was bound.

By now Clary was shaking all over, "I can't watch this. They can't _do_ this!" a strangled protest finally escaped her stinging throat. Knowing that certain practices happened and actually witnessing them were two very different things.

"It is for their own good. They are heretics who have denied the miracle of the host and the authority of the Church in Rome" Aldertree told her cheerfully, "The flames give them a taste of hell my dear, and offer a last chance to repent."

"Burn in hell bitch!" one voice screeched above the din, reinforcing his sentiments. The girl stirred slightly on her stake as though woken by the insult. For a dreadful moment her eyes seemed to lock with Clary's. "Did not Christ suffer?" she enquired, her voice ringing out incredibly clear and steady without a single trace of regret. She concluded her defence by throwing her head back as though enraptured by the taunts and promise of pain, before sinking back into her resigned state and staring fixedly ahead as if her suffering were over and she was already gone.

"They're lighting!" Jonathan announced with dark glee and indeed the surrounding kindling was catching fire. It was all too much for his sister Clary tried to avert her gaze in abject horror, only to have her turn hindered by Jonathan's hands, which flew out suddenly and grabbed her face. "Watch!" he commanded, "look at them, they deserve it! Heresy has to be dealt with like any other pestilence! You _burn_ it out!" His fingers bit into her soft skin, locking her in their iron grip. Clary struggled in vain, feeling her stomach twist painfully once again and the sugared fruit she'd eaten earlier rise as acid bile in the back of her throat.

By some mercy the cries of the dying seemed to excite the crowd more than anything before and they pushed together, blocking from Clary's sight all but the tips of the heretic's heads, and the vague glowing red of the climbing, punishing flames.

In the end not even the thick press of bodies could drown out the screams.

 _-0000000000000000-_

* * *

Upon return to the Gard it transpired that her absence had been noted. Letting herself back into her bedchamber Clary encountered the Lewis', Simon halting mid-pace to frown at her, "Where have you been?!" he demanded, striding over to her and contradicting his angry words with a tight embrace. For a long moment Clary just clung to him, revelling in his familiar soap and resin smell and the warmth of his arms.

"I was out with Jonathan" she stated numbly when she trusted herself to speak.

"Without so much as word?" Simon shook his head incredulously, "Clary we've been beside ourselves! We didn't know what to do or say! We were sure a report to the king would buy us a guaranteed trip to the gallows." A guilty glance confirmed his story, poor Rebecca certainly looked as though she'd been crying.

"I'm sorry" she apologised feebly "Jonathan told me not to tell anyone or we'd surely be caught." She reached for Rebecca's hand and gave it a despondent squeeze. Rebecca squeezed back, quick as ever to forgive, "Never fear. You're home safe and that's all that matters. But you have to promise me you will never do such a thing again! Another episode like that would surely kill me long before His Majesty could."

Clary nodded in ready agreement "I promise" she assured her friend. While Rebecca visibly relaxed Simon was still studying her with puzzled concern. It was times like these she wished he didn't know her so well. "Are you alright Clary? Did something happen?"

"No, no" Clary insisted hastily "I'm just exhausted."

"Well I had some dinner saved for you, that'll see you somewhat revived" Rebecca said, running her hands over her cheeks once more to dry them before striding out in search of food. Clary swallowed her protest that she wasn't fit to eat a bite as she watched the door swing shut in her wake. She somehow managed to deflect Simon's questions about the day's events while they waited for Rebecca's return and settled herself reluctantly at the table, decisively sitting with her back to the fireplace.

Minutes later, the elder Lewis sibling returned bearing a plate of something Clary doubted she could stomach, but she knew that unless she ate something Simon's worry and fretting would be relentless.

Steeled in her resolve she lifted her cutting knife only to pause mid-air. On any other occasion the tender cuts of brown meat would have looked delicious, well-cooked exactly as she liked it. But tonight as the smell of the charred black edges reached her nostrils it sent a wrench to her gut. Trembling she tried to lower the knife but then her resolve broke completely.

The smell of burnt flesh in her nose and soul shattering screams for mercy in their ears, she just about made it to the privy before she promptly doubled over and emptied the contents of her stomach.

- _000000000000000-_

* * *

 **A/N: Yikes. Unpleasant to the max. Although I can at least promise you that no one was harmed in the writing of this fic. Except for me who managed to put myself off roast beef. Not that this is a joking matter but I hate to end a chapter on such a sinister note. The real aim here was to highlight the dangers of the time and also to introduce the darker aspect of Jonathan. Fortunately that is hopefully the most horrifying thing to happen, unless my mind manages to conjure up something worse in the future... Thank you for reading :)**


	6. Steps

**A/N: And we're back! Finally getting round to an update; I was off getting sunburn and a job though sadly not all at once. I realise what probably should have mentioned earlier, as hopefully you've all picked up on, most of the characters are of course fictional though many of them are to some degree modelled on real people who did exist. Then there are the characters mentioned in passing, like Clary's suitors, who are of course real historical figures and I am using those real people and real events, like the Italian Wars that are referenced, to influence certain plot points and characters. Of course it is possible for you to go and read about such people and events if you are interested but I am going to throw my hands up and say here and now that historical events will be manipulated by me to an extent to serve my own purposes (I'll stop short of actually rewriting history however). Also thank you Alexxis T. Swan for your reviews! I have watched the Tudors! *whispers* Henry Cahill my love.. and I like The Other Boleyn Girl too, although I didn't know there was an earlier adaption of the book to the Natalie/Scarlett version which I have to admit I was a little disappointed with. So I'll have to go check that out! As for GoT well don't even get me started. I decided to stop watching the show because I'm a huge fan of the books, but I totally get what you mean when with the Cersei thing :) Good guess with Elizabeth as well, all I'll say is she's not the person _Clary_ is most strongly based on, there is another more like her, perhaps not one you would expect.. .And finally I think there was talk of more Clace? Ask and ye shall receive. **

* * *

_Chapter 5: Steps_

 ** _Road to Chatton House, South of Alicante, May 1536_**

Clary's life had taken an unexpected turn and a sudden change of heart had crept up on her. The court had begun its summer progress and she realised that she would genuinely rather take her chances back in the perilous not-royal barge than ever have to place a foot in the stirrups again. Currently every muscle in her small frame ached and with her thighs so firmly clenched in panic around the sides of her mount she was starting to wonder if she would be left bow-legged for life.

Rather foolishly she had allowed herself to imagine that her days of travelling would be over when she had reached the capital, at least until she would have to depart with a trousseau and dowry intact. As events had transpired the king was determined to spend the summer months as he always had, touring his kingdom with all the pomp and ceremony his royal treasury would allow and staying with some of his most loyal and favoured subjects. Unfortunately as he travelled with an extensive retinue and Clary at present held the coveted position of first lady at his court she was expected to join in the expedition.

Her determination to remain optimistic had dissipated almost as soon as she had first exited the gates of Alicante. Not only was she struggling to keep her horse on course and herself on its back but she had the particular honour of doing so right behind His Majesty at the head of the train. Worse, she feared the stresses of her new public life and the nightmares that left her so fatigued were beginning to take their toll. It was growing increasingly difficult to keep her tears at bay. _Princesses do not cry!_ Her mother would have reprimanded, _never surrender your composure, a princess loses all rights to be respected when she loses control of her emotions!_ But Jocelyn wasn't here and the paltry letters she had received in lieu of her mother's presence were not worth dwelling on.

Nonetheless, Clary did little other than dwell on them. Didn't her mother understand how alone she was here? How her daughter needed her guidance more in this den of wolves than she ever had before? Yet her correspondence was infrequent and when it did arrive tended to remain frustratingly vague. Clary wanted to scream. She was just fifteen years old and whatever Jocelyn thought personally of the king or his plans her daughter still needed her.

The gleaming towers were gradually being reduced to smudged needles on the horizon and Clary realised that now the pace of travel had thankfully slowed there was a notable gap growing between her father and herself. Inevitably the king's more cunning companions and lords filtered in to take her place. His Majesty himself seemed as indifferent as ever to his daughter's struggles on horseback, once the citizens of Alicante had caught the necessary glimpse of their princess there was no need to keep her quite so close. The prince too had gone his separate way, galloping off with a small group of select companions some half hour ago. Not that Clary would be sad to see him go, every time she dared think on her brother she found herself revisiting the horrible dreams that had her jolting awake night after night, breaking away with difficulty from the choking, clamouring screams…

Valentine would likely worry about her and her brother again when they reached their destination , some Chatton House she believed. Before Clary could really begin to despair she was mercifully distracted by the soft crunch of hooves to her right. Turning slightly she found herself face to face with Lucian Graymark. He had been the head of the escort that had brought her to the court but they had barely spoken since and even on the initial journey their verbal exchanges had been limited to insisting she call him Luke and enquiries as to whether or not she had slept well or if she had acquired enough to eat.

Luke did not seem to know what to say to her any more than Clary knew what to say to him. She had deduced he was a friend of her mother's, he had confirmed that much and that he had once been considered for her father's Lord Chancellor many years ago. That had certainly held her attention. Lord Chancellor? The most prominent lord in the realm and her father's right hand, carrying the seal of state and issuing commands on the king's behalf? None of that seemed to fit with the dusty riding boots, untidy brown hair and kindly blue eyes. Besides, she was not sure the prospect of Chancellorship was something one lost and managed to recover from and continue to play a key role at court. "Ah it was a long time ago" Lucian had said with a sheepish laugh, "Valentine thought he was doing a friend a favour but we were both very young and I was entirely unequal to the task, the king's more senior advisors all told him so. In the end I agreed to step aside in favour of a more experienced lord and spent some years in Italy instead, making the most of my lost burden." Something about the story gave Clary the distinct impression that details were being omitted but she had judged it prudent not to press on with an interrogation. Then they had arrived in Alicante and she'd seen very little of him.

Now as he greeted her with a nod and a smile Clary quickly motioned he ride beside her. She truly felt she could do with the company.

"Lord Lucian."

"Luke," his quick correction came accompanied by an exasperated smile.

Clary smiled in concession.

"Fear not" his next words came softly, "this court would test the resolve of a saint."

The princess surrendered to a pained smile, "Is it so obvious?"

"A little, but one could not blame you. Ultimately it is best to remember that all of us here were new at a time and we've all made blunders we would rather not recall. For instance, I once put the old Duke of Broceland's hair on fire at a feast when the Spanish ambassador was visiting, all because I was trying to draw his attention to a gravy stain on his sleeve. I'd wager you have not humiliated yourself so greatly."

"Perhaps not to that degree. Although there have been mishaps " she admitted.

"Now that my dignity is gone you must tell me."

Surprisingly this time conversation sprang up between them easily. Clary hadn't realised until she had started speaking how grateful she was to have someone who listened to her without any judgement or advice, someone who just wanted to listen because she wanted to talk. Even better, for once her mare seemed entirely content to march along by Luke's own horse without mishap, leaving her free to properly engage in the discussion.

Engrossed as she was in this easy new companionship Clary was nonetheless diverted from their conversation by a disturbance at the head of the train. "Is something wrong?" she enquired of Luke. "No, Your Highness I believe we are nearing a village, it is likely that some of the commoners have turned out to see the royal progress."

Sure enough, it was not long before Clary found herself drawing level with some of her loyal subjects lining the road. She had seen such folk before of course, laypeople had come to the convent often enough seeking employment, shelter or sanctuary and on her initial journey to Alicante there had been sights of peasants hard at work in the fields , but this was the first time she had encountered such a mass of common country people and the sight surprised her likely more than it should have. The crowds applauded and called their approval as the royal party passed by but their praise seemed distinctly hollow. On their departure from the city the roads had been lined with cheers and frequent cries of 'God save the king' amongst other blessings, but the crowd in Alicante had been comprised of plump merchants and thriving tradesmen with their wives, children and lucky apprentices. Now she moved alongside groups of men dutifully docking their dusty caps or rough straw hats and lowering their stern, smouldering gazes to muddy, hole riddled boots as their women spread rough brown skirts and dirty aprons in the required curtseys and bare footed, filthy children scampered beside the procession in coarse, makeshift clothes that tended to be either too big or too small. Clary became more acutely aware of her new ivy coloured travelling cape and supple leather gloves at the sight. There was a perceptible hostility in the carefully rehearsed, mechanical displays of submission, Clary was sure of it. Though the labour cracked hands now waved greetings and their bony limbs made no move of aggression one glimpse at the seething eyes flipped her stomach. Upon noticing that Luke had pressed himself closer to her and a line of armed men in royal livery were currently forming a wall of flesh and metal between the peasants and the court members Clary realised this was no paranoia.

She turned to Luke and murmured desperately, "What ails them so? What grievance could possibly warrant this… enmity?" She had trawled through her mind in an attempt to conjure an answer to her own question and could not find one, unless there had been a war or some natural disaster no one had told her of. "Many grievances Princess." Luke informed her sorrowfully, throwing her a meaningful look to hint at a fuller explanation to come.

Indeed, once the village was behind them and roads were clear once again Luke cleared his throat. "A series of bad harvests, Your Highness. Not enough to cause any great catastrophe but such misfortune always precedes hardship."

Clary was not pacified, "Those were not the expressions of hardship. That was hatred."

Luke shifted uncertainly in his saddle and glanced over his shoulder. Clary forced her expression to thaw. "Speak plainly, sir. If I am to represent the needs of my country abroad then I ought to know what those problems are."

Luke seemed to start at her words, and to her astonishment he took one look at her set jaw and determined gaze and burst out laughing. "Dear God, you are the very picture of your mother when you look like that." He hastily recollected himself and smiled at her again awkwardly, "With respect you are to be a wife, not an ambassador."

"A wife can be far more effective than any ambassador in promoting her country's interests, I believe."

"Well said. And I quite agree. Nevertheless I dare not speak to plainly Madam" his voice dropped.

However Clary was not for giving any ground and once the court halted for a brief respite she swung her aching legs out of the saddle and cornered Lucian Graymark again. "Now we are quite alone" she stated, having waved away a groom with her horse and Aline once she had brought her refreshments, "and we can conclude our conversation without worrying of eavesdroppers."

"I realise I will know no peace until I relent."

"Correct."

"I must ask, my lady, that you refrain from having similar conversations with anyone else and exercise the utmost caution in repeating what I tell you."

Clary nodded impatiently at his warnings.

"As I said before the harvests have been bad and the people find themselves with smaller yields. You surely know that agriculture is the cornerstone of Idris' economy; merchants trade in what grows here and on what can be provided by the livestock that grazes in our fields while the lords live on the rents their farming tenants offer, that and the profits they can make on what grows on their land."

Clary cast her mid back to the dark, envious stares she had just ridden through.

"And regardless of what does or doesn't grow on their land lords are not willing to make concessions on how they live. They tend to want the same lifestyle they have always had."

"Why should lords have to sacrifice anything. Is it not the lot of peasants to live modestly and be grateful?" Clary demanded wryly.

"Their thoughts exactly. It has been thus for many years, it is just with recent crop failures that things have got more difficult. It is a matter of ensuring the lower classes have just about enough to get by."

"But why? For fur cloaks and a new hunting horse? That's despicable."

"I agree. But the maintenance of luxury is not the sole reason for this policy I fear." Her informant certainly looked on the verge of what he recognised as potentially a very bad decision. Clary blinked and waited. "On top of the rent there are taxes to the crown. The ultimate insurance of poverty."

The new gold chain around her throat suddenly seemed to tighten its grip, as if to strangle her. "To keep the crown in all its glory?" She asked in a brittle, cracking voice, swamped in guilt.

"Amongst other reasons. His Majesty is quite firmly of the opinion that repression is the best form of protection." Luke visibly struggled to keep his tone mild, she could trace the disapproval rippling underneath his nonchalant words. _Careful Luke,_ Clary thought, _you're lucky I agree_. He fixed that penetrating blue gaze on her once again, reading the appalled shock writ clearly there. If she wasn't mistaken his response was one of approving relief. _I have been tried in the balance and not found wanting._

"It has worked, of course. The peasants cannot bear arms, nor meet for anything other than religious services and gatherings are closely monitored. Every penny one can spare and even those that cannot be spared are scraped out for the royal coffers and no one pays any attention to how the figures so meticulously inked into the ledgers got there. If the result is another peasant child starving to death then it is no great tragedy. One less to worry about."

"And the Church? Surely with all their influence they could put a stop to it?" Clary demanded, thinking of how the nuns of the Holy Cross had never shirked from helping those in direst need, going to such lengths of almsgiving to the poor as taking in desperate families. She could clearly conjure the kindly face of the Mother Superior, Mother Dorothea extolling the need for Christian love and peaching the words of the saviour himself to her novices and to Clary during her lessons _: "whatsoever you do unto the least of my people, that you do unto me."_

Luke shook his head grimly, "Those who receive sizeable donations from the crown do not ask questions."

 _-0000000000000000-_

* * *

The rolling gait of the horse underneath him was a welcome relief to Jace. After weeks stuck in that hulking Gard he would have been glad of any escape, but it was good to be back in Wayfarer's saddle nonetheless. As though he too was relishing the new freedom, Wayfarer tossed back his head, the strands of silver that made up his mane shuddering and the powerful muscles in his dappled neck rippling. He truly was a fine animal; Jace suspected he had cost the Count a small fortune but when the time had come to send his boys away Robert had insisted they needed good horses and had soon purchased the two best bred steeds he could find.

If Alec had ever been slightly resentful that his father was treating Jace on an equal plane to his true son and heir he had never shown it. In all the years they had grown up together Robert had always singled out Jace to praise his superior learning and swordsmanship and Alec had never truly spoken one word of dissent. And he had certainly never done aught but encourage Jace's success. The world needed more Alec Lightwoods.

Admittedly in the beginning there had been surly expressions and muttered curses, but within weeks of his arrival at Adamant Jace had decided to spurn Mayrse and Isabelle's willingness to cosset and nurture him in favour of Alec's solemn dislike which over the months had gradually dissipated into a solid friendship. Years down the line the two were just as inseparable and at times Jace was sure that Alec was the only person in this world he could unreservedly trust. Presently that was more true than ever; he was in the King of Idris' train and surrounded by courtiers who, now that the surname 'Herondale' had leaked out, tended to squint at him as though he were some sort of exotic beast in a menagerie. Currently it was that Lord Aldertree who was considering Jace with curious calculation. Realising his shameless observation had been noted Aldertree's lips lifted in a vaguely apologetic smile, though his watery eyes never left Jace's face. Swallowing roughly and digging his heels firmly into Wayfarer's sides, Jace urged his mount to pick up the pace.

So far the summer progress had not been very progressive. The past week had been thoroughly uneventful, the court would be spending the season drifting around the countryside in order to avoid the plague and rising stench of human dirt that the summer heat brought to the city, visiting the king's various estates and also those of the lucky noblemen whom the king was willing to bestow a visit on. From what Jace had seen on their progress thus far, the cost of housing and entertaining a royal court could very easily bankrupt the fortunate family favoured by His Majesty's attention.

Attention that the French party were fighting hard to catch and keep. Valentine Morgenstern was far from a fickle man yet as far as his daughter's marriage was concerned he seemed keen to hedge his bets and keep his options open, never allowing his favour to linger on one diplomatic party for very long.

Mysteriously Alec's company was still very much in demand, today he was riding at the head of the party with the Morgensterns themselves and Jace got the distinct feeling that Alec's cluelessness as to why the king was determined to spend so much time with him was somewhat affected. But he had known Alec long enough to know that pressing him would never yield any answers and he tried to stay confident that his friend would open up when he was ready.

His worries were not helped any by the sight of Jonathan Morgenstern approaching him at a sharp trot with Sebastian Verlac on one flank and Alec Lightwood on the other. Jace sincerely hoped that the Prince could just ride by without a cutting comment or better still, pitch forward over the horse's shoulder and land spectacularly flat in the dirt so Jace could laugh in his soil streaked face. As ever, save bad luck Jace had no luck at all. Riding obnoxiously close, Jonathan circled his horse rudely by as though he were impatient to move away as quickly as possible.

"Herondale" he sneered with the usual lack of courtesy. "You'll be pleased to know I've finally found a use for you."

Struggling to refrain from sighing aloud Jace waited while the prince's companions lurked nearby, Verlac looking bored and Alec looking apologetically awkward.

"I await instruction with anticipation" Jace offered dryly.

"Have you seen my sister?"

Jace raised an eyebrow in surprise "She was with you and your father at the head of the party last time I saw."

"She fell behind some time ago. My father wants to know what's delaying her. Go and fetch her for us would you?"

Behind him Verlac snickered as though Jonathan's idea was some sort of genius. Even as his stomach burned and hands shook slightly with the desire to help the Crown Prince off his horse with his fists, Jace kept his face what was hopefully blank. It wasn't as though there was a small army of pages and servants in the train who could fetch the princess, oh no, Jace was the one who had to degrade himself to do it. _Clever snub as always Your Highness_. But he could feel Alec's silent pleading and realised he could possibly work this prospect of seeing the princess to his advantage, so he resolved himself to knock Jonathan Morgenstern off his horse some other time and bowed his head respectfully. "It would be an honour, sir" he said with carefully measured sweetness and turned Wayfarer to canter back the way they had come.

The soothing pound of hooves along the cropped green grass of the main road along the edge of Broceland forest soon made Jace's temper cool, he could almost pretend that he was still at home in Adamant and taking the usual afternoon ride with Alec and Izzy. Pretty as Alicante had been, the rolling green fields of Idris were absolutely beautiful. The kings of Idris may wear all kinds of jewels but their real treasure was the fertile farmland they ruled. One glance at the abundant emerald glow of the surrounding fields was confirmation enough of how Idris had managed to prosper and hold its own as a European power despite its small size. Today especially they made a pleasant sight, the sky peeking playfully through the soft patches of cloud was a perky blue, and bright sweeps of sunlight glimmered, wavered and danced on the hills in the distance. Jace happily rolled his shoulders, loosening the tension of the past month as he revelled in the warmth of the sun on his back and the brisk breeze that bounced across his cheeks, heavily scented with the comforting scents of rain soaked leaves, wildflowers and the rich tang of horse sweat.

A happy mood that could only deepen at the sight of a struggling Clarissa Morgenstern by the roadside. Her horse must have decided that it preferred the bordering shrubbery to the open road, leaving it's mistress stranded and grappling with the plants pressing against her. Her face was cast in the shade of an overhanging tree and there were streaks of mud on her smart travelling cape, her cap was crooked and some leaves had taken up residence in her tousled hair.

From the glimpses he'd caught of her thus far on his travels she was not enjoying the journey half so much as he was. He spied her clutching at the reins desperately and feet floundering in the stirrups as she tried to stay on the horse's back. The horse, of course, only pranced and jerked at her lack of control, seemingly as baffled at her incompetence as Jace was. Beside her Isabelle was barking some futile orders, cutting a sharp contrast to her mistress from her perfect poise in the saddle. In all honesty if Jace hadn't known better he would have taken Isabelle for the princess.

"Heels down, Clary! Down! That's more like it, now sit up straight!"

"I am!" the princess cried, huddled in the saddle like a hunchback.

"No you're not, you look like Richard III" Isabelle informed her with unchecked exasperation, "I thought you said you could ride?"

"It's not my fault Isabelle! It's this stupid _mule_!"

"First of all that is a palfrey, the chosen mount of noblewomen and queens for centuries. Second of all it is not her fault, she's just excited to get fresh grass under her hooves. And thirdly will you please shorten your reins? They're like washing lines."

Clary wrestled frantically with the strips of leather between her fingers as if they were the ropes on a ship that stopped her going overboard. In return the grey mare released a tremulous whinny against the bit clattering in her teeth and tried a half-hearted rear, lifting her forelegs a few inches in the air. It wasn't enough to unseat the princess but it was enough for her to emit a breathless yelp that only startled the poor horse further.

Much as he wanted to see the pompous little wench on her behind in the dust, there was something about the beseeching look on Isabelle's face and the white fear on Clary's that made Jace draw Wayfarer to a halt.

"It does indeed seem that I did Snowy a great favour. It would be a favour for any horse to be liberated from your care" he called over.

"So you admit you stole Snowy!" Clary retorted through gritted teeth. Jace was both impressed and frustrated in equal measures at her unwavering pride.

"Kick!" Isabelle rang out another command upon despairing of Jace's assistance and Clary flapped her legs obediently but uselessly. She loosed another little shriek as her mare lurched forward a stride only to swiftly change her mind and retreat several steps, her pearly rump pressing dangerously close to Isabelle's bay whose nostrils flared warningly. The two horses churned against one another for a dreadful moment until Isabelle managed to steer her steed away before it could buck.

"Are you going to help or not?" she snapped at Jace, eyes flashing with fearful anger.

"Initially I thought to gloat, but since lives are clearly in danger…" he sighed and edged Wayfarer closer to the princess, where he was astonished to note that her eyes had taken on a glossy quality and her lower lip trembled marginally.

For Jace there was only one thing he sought to avoid more keenly than a girl with the pox and that was a girl on the verge of tears. It was almost enough to send him in the opposite direction at full gallop, but then he recalled this was not the first time he had seen Clary cry and continued his resolute approach. Once upon a time he would gladly have dried her tears.

"Go away!" she ordered, but the venom was significantly diluted by her obvious distress.

"Princess-" he started.

"I don't need your help!" The words were poorly punctuated by a sorry sniff. Jace guessed it wouldn't be long before the flood gates burst and the tears she was barley holding back started to fall in earnest. Her head was determinedly lowered in a failed attempt to disguise her emotion and as Jace looked at her for the first time he stopped seeing her as Valentine's precious and haughty daughter and started to see a bitter and frightened little girl. He knew that she was just weeks off her sixteenth birthday but at the moment she was so small and fragile looking that she looked younger.

She was barely more than a child and she had been thrust into this cut-throat game of power with no preparation and no friends, where she was nothing more than a prize.

Now he was closer to where she crouched on the horse's back he could see how brightly the copper flakes of her freckles stood out against her blanched cheeks and the distinct red rim around her damp eyes.

She sniffed again defiantly and refused to meet his gaze. "Stop it" he told her gently but firmly, "You are starting to sound like Pangborn."

Despite herself, she laughed shortly and shakily. She sucked in a breath and then lifted her head, fixing him with a dry eyed stare. "I don't need your help" she repeated, this time more steadily. She shook her head in an irritated surrender, "I've given up. I'll walk."

"Your Highness I fear I must point out that Chatton House is miles away and you don't know the way."

"Well I'll just follow the court."

"The court is long gone. In fact I fear at this rate you've even missed the baggage train."

"Then I'll…let the sun guide me"

Jace merely raised an eyebrow. "Madam, much as I am willing to obey your every wish I am not only here to provide you with the treat of my company. Your brother sent me and His Majesty is waiting for you."

He thought for an awful moment she was going to remain obstinate but thankfully the stubborn set of her shoulders finally slackened.

"Come on. Sit up, shoulders back. Just as you would at the dinner table."

She stared at him incredulously.

"They may not have taught you how to ride but I know they taught you how to sit like a lady." Slowly she mimicked his command, unfurling from her curled position, an uncertain flower blooming. "There we go. Now relax Princess. She senses your unease and it makes her nervous too." Tentatively Clarissa released the tension in her small body and gradually the horse's fidgeting subsided. "It worked!"

"No need for that amount of disbelief. Generally speaking I do know what I'm talking about. Now, no big kicks, she's a gentlewoman's pony not some beginners plodder. Just turn your heels in, quickly but sharply. That should get her going without startling her." Complying, Clarissa managed to successfully manoeuvre her mount forward a few paces without catastrophe. With only a few more words of encouragement and advice he managed to persuade both horse and rider back onto the road to where Isabelle waited. "Thank God!" she greeted them, sweeping a low hanging branch out of her face in irritation as she trotted over to them. "I was beginning to despair of you in earnest!"

"Never an ounce of faith" Jace muttered under his breath as they made their way down the road, the princess bobbing along tentatively and flanked by the French.

Jace suspected if Santiago or any of the other ambassadors saw this they'd have fits. The thought thoroughly amused him for a time, then he really began to feel their agonisingly slow pace and the impatience set in. He sensed that Isabelle felt the same way, mostly because she voiced her frustration. "Why didn't you just tell them you couldn't ride in the first place? They would have happily supplied a litter you know" she paused to let her words sink in before adding in a not altogether quiet undertone, "Then we'd be at dinner already."

"I can ride!" Clarissa retorted. "At least I thought I could" she stated sullenly.

"And that means…?"

"It would appear my mother only ever sanctioned the most reliable of mounts. The kind that struggled to go at any sort of speed and preferred to just trudge along reliably. She likely sought to minimise the risk, keep me as safe as possible. My mother was like that. Is like that" she corrected herself abruptly. "So now that they've given me a horse that isn't mindlessly obedient," her horse accentuated her point by veering off the road to seize a mouthful of the hedgerow before Jace caught hold of the bridle and pulled it back, "I can't quite manage" the princess concluded sheepishly.

"Well at least now we have the opportunity to fully appreciate the Idrisian scenery" Jace pointed out.

"Yes. Just look at all those fields. Extraordinary. It is hardly as though they look just like every field in France, or indeed Europe!" Isabelle enthused with her usual sunny temperament.

Jace had no choice but to respond with all the pretentious humour of an older sibling. "As it happens they are not like every other field in Europe. In truth the fields of Italy and Spain are not nearly as green."

Isabelle threw him a disdainful look, "I'm sure to be eternally grateful for the knowledge."

The princess' mount swerved rapidly of course again, effectively cutting off the rising argument. Clarissa, who had previously been watching the banter with a strange curiosity blushed fiercely. "I am sorry for… this" she volunteered with evident mortification as she had to be rescued once again.

"Fear not Your Highness, if the king asks you what kept you so late and you are too embarrassed to recount this tale you can always tell him Monsieur Herondale pulled you off your horse and dishonoured you in a ditch" Isabelle smirked with pitch black humour.

"Isabelle!" Clarissa coughed out with deepening horror.

"That isn't funny" Jace told her sharply. Her only response was a pert little shrug, but she did fix her gaze straight ahead and lapse into silence.

The discomfort stretched on for some time as none of the party endeavoured to speak, until at last Jace cleared his throat again and sighed, "Well if we're going to be here for a while. We may as well make some use of it-"

"You may not have me in a ditch" Clarissa interrupted before he could proceed. Jace's head whipped round to look at her in disbelief, only to see the usual challenging gleam had returned to her eyes. Her lips flickered in the beginnings of an expectant smile as she regarded him.

"Of course not. A lady of your position must have standards. How about behind that tre-"

"Your Excellence I do not think it is in your best interest to complete that sentence." So she was truly back on form. Then she uttered an airy little laugh, "Very well. There will never be a more opportune moment, I suppose."

Jace spared a second to consider whether or not a 'Lucky tree' comment would be fatal. Thankfully the princess pushed on herself before he could make a truly detrimental decision.

"Tell me all about your Prince. Not the things I usually hear about my suitors, how much land he owns, how politically strong and masculine he is. I want to know what he is really like. What his interests are."

"Ah the Dauphin. Francois, the Duke of Brittany. Well for a start he is only two years your senior, and I do believe you have much in common."

"Like expert horsemanship?"

She managed to startle a genuine laugh out of Jace at the last comment and seemed pleased with herself for doing do.

"As it happens you do! Francois is not much of a sportsman, although he is skilled enough to be so. He prefers his studies. An avid reader. Although not a complete bookworm. He had a difficult childhood and has grown into a very strong and serious person. He is not a complete dullard but neither is he vain or frivolous like other princes his age. He is well read, well informed and a good debater. He listens well and is not too proud to allow himself to be dissuaded or swayed by a good argument. He cares what those around him have to say. That is important in a Prince. I believe he as all the makings of a very fine king, but also a good husband."

"And he's handsome" Isabelle informed her mistress "Even more handsome than his father, they say, and they speak true. He's tall and sturdy, with blue eyes and golden brown hair. He has a rare but a nice smile, the sort of smile that makes you want to see it on his face again and again. He's the joy of his parent's lives, and he is kind to his stepmother. People who ought to know say that is something to look for in a prospective partner."

Clarissa grew increasingly thoughtful as they spoke.

"You know him well?"

Jace considered the thoughtful but charismatic young man and the nights they had spent sitting up into the small hours, enthusing and critiquing their latest reads.

"Would it surprise you to learn that we are friends?"

"Somewhat. Then I trust you will answer my next question honestly with the happiness of a friend in mind: do you think we would be a good match?"

Unexpectedly it was Isabelle who answered, "I think you could love him. And it's quite possible he could love you. He is the sort of boy it would be easy to love, if you were willing to open your heart to the possibility. Other girls love him, but he keeps to himself. I think he would be faithful in wedlock, because has seen was his father's hordes of mistresses have done to his stepmother and heard what they did to his mother. He would not do that to his wife."

The princess nodded, slowly absorbing their words, only the little crease between her eyebrows betraying how she was likely tearing apart all they had said for a deep analysis of the man who could be her husband.

The man whom Jace was determined to make her husband, he reminded himself.

 _-0000000000000000-_

* * *

It seemed as though they'd been silent for centuries. There was only the lonely thump of hooves on the path and the occasional chirp of wind as the dreary trio trudged toward Chatton house, which with every passing minute Clary stayed stuck in the saddle began to sound more and more like a paradise. The prospect of a warm bed or a hot bath to soothe her aching limbs was beyond appealing. She almost wished for her horse to start playing up again just so that someone would _speak._ Clary even suspected that Isabelle had dozed off and of course the ambassador wasn't going to talk to her. So the silence deepened and dragged on. For Clary, the amount of time she had been left stuck inside her own head was becoming unbearable. Lately, such periods of reflection sooner or later lead to her reliving those terrible moments stood over the stakes. The stench of burning flesh and sound of dying screams rolled around and around in her head and echoed in most of her nightmares. There was never any escape.

"You seem unwell" the envoy's voice chimed mercifully through her inner tumult, "What's the matter?"

Without having made a conscious decision to speak, words poured out of Clary' mouth, "Have you ever seen someone die?"

Jace Herondale blinked at her, his gold eyes darkly curious as he weighed up her question. Part of Clary wanted to reel the words back in and insist she hadn't meant to speak at all, but the larger part of her genuinely wanted an answer. She wanted to scratch the surface and see if this boy really was shallow vanity and arrogance the whole way through.

"Princess, I have seen hundreds of men die" he told her after a considerable pause. Her breath caught at the admission, she didn't know what she had expected, but it certainly hadn't been that. "What?"

She watched his throat bob as he swallowed and searched for the words. "Gavinana," he said as if it were all the answer she needed.

Clary wracked her brains, trying to recall the lessons her mother had given her, frantically mouthing Gavinana to herself as she tried to place the familiar name. Then it struck her; "Gavinana! Yes that was- outside Florence wasn't it?"

Jace's brows raised , surprised at her knowledge. He coughed rapidly to clear his throat before continuing. "It was outside Florence. In August, six years ago. I fought at that battle."

"You fought at that battle?" Clary echoed with shrill disbelief, "But how- I thought that it was fought between the Spanish Emperor's army and people of Florence themselves! France promised an army yes, but to the best of my knowledge it never arrived. So how could a Frenchman have fought at that battle?"

His amber eyes flashed and initially all he seemed capable of doing was to blink at her, completely taken aback, mayhap from a mixture of astonishment at her knowledge and offence that she'd practically called him a liar.

"First of all, I have spent hour after hour being versed in the politics of Idris and all the other main European powers, so both such current and historical events have been carved on my brain. And secondly there is nothing I despise more than lies."

Her response struck at a hollow silence. Then the ambassador's inflamed temper sparked up. "You know your battles, I'll give you that Princess, but you don't know my story and I'll thank you not to presume you do." Upon conclusion of his snapped reply he turned away from her in a rather sobering parody of her own demonstrations of offence from the previous weeks.

There was something about his very sincere and quiet umbrage that made Clary check herself. It was as though he'd opened the doors just a crack to her and her haughty response had made him slam them shut so abruptly she could practically hear the bang as his uniquely golden gaze became dully indifferent once again.

Quelling her pride and shifting uncertainly in the saddle Clary tried again. "Perhaps if you-"

"Perhaps if I what? Would you have me tear open my clothes and exhibit the scar across my chest I earned there for you, and you could study it and decide on its authenticity? God help me Madam I am many things, but a liar has never been one of them."

The astonishingly bitter anger swelling and all but spinning off him promptly sealed Clary's lips. "I am sorry." She said quietly, only half expecting him to hear her but truly filled with humbling guilt after his outburst.

He laughed bluntly, "Never fear. I ought to be used to the prejudices by now."

Clary decided to file that comment away to think on later and she spoke again, this time with greater care. "Why were you at Florence? And what was it like?" His expression grew glassily pensive and just as Clary was beginning to despair of ever receiving answers he began to speak. "I was in the city because the Count sent me, I was with one of his men and we were supposed to be meeting with some bankers. You'll find quite a few of those in Florence, the city's famous for them" he noted wryly before continuing his tale, "I was just a boy and we shouldn't even have been there but we arrived in the middle of October. The timing was terrible: the Roman states were at war, the Republic of Florence included and the city fell under siege at the end of the month. We didn't get out in time.

'The man who was supposed to be supervising us fell ill of a fever and expired after five months. So it was just the two of us, myself and Alec, who wasn't even supposed to be there; two boys alone and trapped in a city under siege.

'You cannot imagine what it is like, in a siege. At first there's that air of stubbornness and defiance; that determination that they _will_ not take your city. Then the food starts to trickle out, and things become a little more difficult. Now it's the waiting that becomes hard, interminable in fact because now you're hungry and you just want something to _happen._ This builds until the anticipation and the desperation hangs thick and heavy in the air like a putrid smoke.

'It's bad enough being trapped in a city like that but when you're foreigners? Worse than that you're _French_. You're one of those lying, faithless bastards whose king fills Florentine ears with promise of an army and aid and soon but never delivers. Soon we were scared to unlock the doors at all.

'Then at long last something _happened_! The Prince of Orange gathered an army. When someone knocks on your door and offers you a sword and the opportunity to prove yourself it's hard to refuse, especially when you've longed for this to happen for so long. Almost ten months we were locked in that city and we marched out with dreams of glory and a real life game of heroes.

'I was fifteen years old.

'I can still feel it now, you know, the unforgivable heat of the sun and the jostling and swearing of the men around me. Because they don't care that you are the son and the ward of the Count of Adamant when you're French, so they sent us out with the infantry along with common labourers and the lowly tradesmen.

'There's a reason they call what they teach noble boys in the practice yard swordplay. That's all it is: play. In reality it's just blood and fear. Blindly swinging a weapon and praying you aren't destined to die among foreign dust and the blood of strangers. At one point a fellow soldier spotted me and my reluctance. "What's the matter boy? Scared to die?"

"No" I told him. "Just scared of dying here"

"Why, where's better for you? What have you got that's so worth living for?"

'And I couldn't quite answer him. There was no great reason for me to want to live, other than fear of what lay or didn't lie on the other side for me and this profound sense that I had to have some raison d'être; that I couldn't die before I had some reason to live.

'In the beginning we were winning, apparently it was all going well for us but I was barely more than a child and terrified out of my wits. Then reinforcements came for the Imperialists and we started losing. In the end there is no honour in a warriors death. Men die pleading for mercy, or calling out for the Mother of God but mostly they call out for their own mothers. It's pitiful and its plaintive, though by then you're wading through gore and guts trying to avoid the same fate and you can't spare too much sympathy.

'After a few hours I was cut down. Sword right across my chest. Thankfully Alec was nearby, we had stuck close together through the whole thing so he had my attacker dead and was by my side in seconds. The last thing I remember before I blacked out was Alec grasping my hand and forbidding me to die in that superior manner of his. He worked on the wound right there himself and got me back to safety. How he did it I'll never know, but he saved my life.

'For the next few weeks we lay low, I was quick to become Idrisian again and Alec became my cousin and thankfully no one looked twice at the two of us. It was nearly another month before I had recovered enough for another of the Count's men to get us out of that godforsaken city and home to Adamant."

Once his story was complete, Jace seemed to struggle join her in the present, shaking himself slightly as if waking from a bad dream and regarding her numbly, as if he couldn't quite believe he had just told her all he had. Clary couldn't quite believe it herself, staring at the beautiful and troubled boy before her with stunned ears and new eyes. Perhaps he had not been the only one to draw an incorrect conclusion from their first impressions of one another.

He dipped his head for a moment, as though trying to collect himself and Clary could only stare at him, struggling to come to terms with the fact that her old playmate may not have grown up into the conceited and blindly ambitious person she had thought he was, but she didn't know this scarred young man any more than she had the last one.

Then he lifted his head and his mouth was balanced into a more familiar sarcastic half smile, only now she had a glimpse at the effort required to put it there .

"Shortly afterward I decided to dedicate my life to diplomacy. It is marginally less dangerous."

"Even serving me?" she inquired faintly, determined to play along for now and try and decode Herondale later. Jace exhaled beside her quietly.

"I did say marginally, Your Highness." Unable to muster any kind of witty response, Clary fell back into silence and let the click and crunch of hooves on the empty road fill the noiseless evening once again, although now that they had turned a corner Clary thought she could see the glimmer of lit windows through the growing gloom.

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

The flames danced on the gold band of his signet ring as Jonathan slowly let the reflection of the firelight slide off his ring on its return journey it to its rightful place on his right index finger. He cast another bored glance over his shoulder to where his father was seated behind the huge beech wood desk where he conducted his business and was at the moment engrossed in some papers. With each passing year Jonathan found himself sitting in on his father's meetings more and more in order to receive an increasing amount of dull lessons in kingship. All of this was truly unnecessary in his opinion, he did not need to learn how to be a prince when he had been born one. That was the point. Utterly oblivious to his son, Valentine swiped his quill over the current document, etching in his assent with a flourishing signature. "You will ride to Alicante as swiftly as possible" he informed Alexander Lightwood who was stood on the other side of the desk with his usual grimly sombre expression and his legs planted a few feet apart as though he were bracing himself for impact.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Upon arrival you will give this" he passed the freshly sealed letter over "and the accompanying package to Magnus Bane and only Magnus Bane. As we discussed."

"Yes, sire." The Lightwood boy bowed and began to back out of the room before halting a few paces from the door and peering up at the king as though he had something to say.

"Is there a problem, Lord Lightwood?"

"Not at all. I merely wondered if your Majesty was sure I am not needed here.."

"Oh no Alexander. I can spare you for a few days and it is hardly a difficult task. When you return you will still have a place amongst us, although what that place will be depends on the outcome of this little mission."

"Of course but I-"

"You" Valentine interrupted behind the rim of his raised goblet, "work for me now. For as long as you reside under my roof and follow in my train you defer only to me. You make yourself mine to command and in return I extend my friendship not only to you but your entire family. That much you remember Alexander." The king's words were perfectly airy, but they had the dark edges of any brewing storm cloud. And clearly they were sufficient for Alec to absorb the magnitude of what had just been said as he dipped into another bow and swiftly completed his retreat.

Jonathan didn't bother to turn and watch him go but remained lounging against the carved mantelpiece, drumming his fingers against what looked like a lion engraved into the warm stone. Only the rapid scratching of nib on parchment told him that his father had resumed shifting through his various documents. He wondered how long he would have to stand here waiting for attention. Then he wondered if something had happened. He couldn't think of any reason for his father to be displeased, he had fulfilled all the duties he had been given, even the especially boring ones. Well more or less.

Perhaps it was praise then. Aldertree had complimented his zeal in protecting his faith of late, mayhap Valentine wanted to reward his newfound religious fervour and dedication to the Church in Rome. Although it was of little consequence to Jonathan, he would burn heretics with or without his father's explicit approval.

"Jonathan" the king spoke at last, rising from his seat and beckoning for him to approach. Jonathan moved away from the fireplace and crossed the room to where Valentine waited. As the natural light crept away through the windowsill the light supplied by the freshly lit candles grew and bathed the room in a soft golden glow, which seemed to catch the green and gold in the patterned walls. Jonathan thought they were meant to resemble some kind of leaf latticework but he didn't waste too much time studying it. Instead he stood by his father's shoulder at the window.

"Look out there. Tell me what you see." Raising his eyebrows slightly Jonathan peered through the thick glass pane. From here he had to admit the view was quite impressive; he could see out onto the stretching lawns and gardens down to the road they had arrived by earlier.

That was when he saw what he assumed his father intended to draw his attention to, through the huge stone gate his little sister was plodding home with that idiot bastard Herondale on one shoulder and the much more pleasant form of Isabelle Lightwood on the other. He allowed himself a moment to appreciate the fine form of Isabelle in a rather figure hugging, dusky green velvet riding habit. However easy that was on the eye he doubted it was what had snared his father's interest. This was to be about Clary then. It made sense now he thought about it, most things these days were.

"My sister is home safely. Thanks be to God. You could not possibly be here to complain that I didn't fetch her back myself. Clearly the escort I sent completed the task sufficiently."

"No Jonathan, I am not going to complain of you. On the contrary, I am glad you sent the escort you did" Valentine said enigmatically.

Jonathan waited, watching the trio approach with the falling dusk. If he was about to hear how great a son Jonathan Herondale had been he was also about to seriously lose his temper. He glanced at his father to say as much but there was something in the king's expression that made him hold his tongue, that and the fact half of his father's face was shrouded in the evening shadows. There was no way he was going to risk uttering a syllable of speech before he felt he could accurately predict his father's reaction.

"Look closer" Valentine commanded.

Jonathan tried again, "I see my sister surrounded by the French. So I suppose I can assume that she is to go to the Dauphin. From what I hear he is the most likely suitor, I had half assumed that anyway."

Valentine smiled to himself as though he had just been told something amusing. "A worthy guess Jonathan. But not what I wanted you to think. Perhaps you need some more direction. Tell me about the line of succession as it stands today, this very hour."

Jonathan frowned. "I am your heir, first in line to the throne."

"Yes, and then?

"My heirs."

"But I said at this very hour and you have no children. So your heir is…?"

"My sister" Jonathan stated slowly, speculating to himself what would follow and hating what he presumed.

"And who then follows Clarissa? Who is third in line to the throne of Idris at this very moment in time?" Valentine demanded.

Jonathan gritted his teeth. "I haven't thought that far ahead."

"Liar. Tell me, you know it as well as I do. Maybe even more."

The prince offered a disinclined shrug, "Then I suppose it would have to be the Herondale boy."

"Yes" Valentine said shortly and sharply, "You suppose correctly." The king pointed out the window again to where the small party of latecomers were on the edge of their field of vision. "So I want you to think of him as he is right now, at this second: quite literally one short step behind your sister." .

An incredulous laugh burst from Jonathan, "He is supposed to be a threat to me? To us? Well, maybe he was once upon a time, but we have dealt with that. We have degraded him so much that now he comes to us as a glorified messenger, practically a serving boy. He is a nobody!"

"He is a Herondale" Valentine corrected his son briskly. "Never forget it."

"Please. The Herondales haven't been a force to be reckoned with for almost a hundred years."

"Yes but before that they were kings of Idris for almost five hundred years. The most successful, longest reigning dynasty this land has ever seen. And after all that time I suppose we are overdue a Herondale that will prove a decent threat.

'Oh the Herondales, they with their golden smiles and their golden charm sat on thrones while our ancestors trekked the muddy war fields of Europe. The Herondales, with their famous beauty and their famous honour. The people loved them. He is a contender for our throne by sheer virtue of his surname, and a serious contender because he has also inherited every ounce of the Herondale nature along with the name. For that there are those who would raise a banner and unsheathe a sword for that boy in a heartbeat. He may be a glorified messenger Jonathan but not so long ago your great grandfather was a glorified soldier who got lucky in battle and killed a king, then got even luckier and persuaded a Council to crown him.

'The Morgensterns have a crown by conquest and the common folk have no great love for us. There will always be those who mutter that their crops grew better or their hens laid more when that coronet rested on the brow of a Herondale." Valentine drew in a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders as though the speech had been weighing on him. "So you see, my son, now my greatest fear is that there are those who will become accustomed to seeing a Herondale around the throne. So accustomed that they may begin to think of him being _on_ the throne." He paused for affect as the last slice of daylight disappeared from the room. "You know what they do to deposed kings and their families." He concluded with soft dread.

"That will never happen" Jonathan vowed in a low growl, dropping his hand to where his sword hung on his hip. "Besides, soon you can conclude this whole marriage business and pack him off to France again."

Valentine scratched at his beard on again, moving back to settle himself in his huge chair and started sipping his drink once again, his eyes clouded and thoughtful as though he hadn't heard his son's last words at all.

Jonathan tapped his fingers on the metal hilt impatiently, "If Herondale troubles you so much why not just get rid of him?"

Valentine slammed his goblet to the desk with an bang that set the whole structure quivering. "Did you hear nothing of what I just said? Why must you always be full of ignorant wrath boy! Have I taught you nothing? You must learn to think before you strike!"

The prince flinched at his father's anger and then scrambled to make some kind of amends. "I hear you!"

"Then answer your own question. Why _is_ Jonathan Herondale still breathing?"

"Because there are those who would draw swords for him simply because of who he is." Jonathan began, trying not to stumble on his words. "They love him more than they ever will us, so he could persuade them to do things for us that they would never have done if it were a Morgenstern who had asked them. That could be a valuable weapon. _He_ could be a valuable weapon."

Valentine simply nodded to himself, suitably pacified. He lowered his chin and propped it up in his hand, brow furrowing. "The boy has crawled away from the doors of death more than once. I once thought that if I could simply orchestrate a scenario of the boy being in the wrong place at the wring time and leaving it to God to favour our family. Instead the Lord saw fit to deliver him. Jonathan Herondale is evidently a weapon God intends for us to have. But how to use that weapon…" he mused in an undertone to himself. After a long moment his eyes rose to Jonathan's once again. "I am the King of Idris. Some of my subjects love me and some of them hate me, but they all obey me. You know why that is Jonathan?"

His son nodded, looked Valentine squarely in the face and recited the first lesson he had ever been taught, the one he knew as well as the Lord's prayer: "Because they fear you, Your Majesty and fear is just as effective as love when you want to encourage obedience. In fact, I would wager it is even more effective."

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

 **A/N: Dun dun dun! Exciting times all round :) Clace is slowly but surely beginning to form I can assure you. Wow, writing that really brought back all my own experiences of horse riding. I feel you Clary. Sidenote to my old riding instructor: I am taking back the washing lines comment.** **And yes the implication was there, Valentine did try to set Jace up with a passive assassination attempt at Florence :O** **Finally I would like to clarify that Richard III was not a hunchback so shut up Shakespeare, he was actually rather cool.**


	7. A Wife

**A/N: Sorry about the gap between updates, but the last week or so has been pretty hectic for me! And when I finally got round to editing it was only when I finished that I realised the chapter I had edited was not the chapter for posting! So apologies again :) I am a fool. And thank you as always for the great reviews! Valentine has officially been renamed, though we as his pals can call him Machi. :) Hopefully I have the right chapter here... And it's the first prequel chapter DUN DUN DUNNN! So I hope you all enjoy! Although as heads up, this chapter does contain sexual references, just so we are all aware.**

* * *

 ** _Chapter 6: A wife _**

_"_ _God damned it. This is hell,_

 _But I planned it, I saw it, I nailed it and I_

 _Will live in it until it kills me. I can nail my left palm_

 _T_ _o the left hand cross-piece but I can't do everything myself._

 _I need a hand to nail the right_

 _A help, a love, a you, a wife._

-Love Song: I and Thou, Alan Dugan

 ** _Amaranth Hall, Western lands, Early May 1514_**

Jocelyn wished she didn't have to be here.

Absentmindedly she traced the gilded pattern embellished on the curved armrests of her chair and hoped that her discomfort wasn't too obvious. As though the nobles of Alicante would need another reason to complain of her. After all, queens were supposed to wear a mask of courteous indifference at all times and she could just imagine them mocking her surly and 'common' face.

She just hoped Luke wouldn't be too angry. Surely he would understand that she hadn't been left with a choice. When they had placed that crown on her head she had gained power yes, but it had been at the cost of her freedom. And she had tried so hard to avoid this whole scenario, pleading off the wedding on account of her pregnancy and consequent weariness. She had even spent hours praying that this woman would not come to court before she had entered confinement and she could manage to avoid her for weeks. No such luck.

Beside her Valentine was smiling elegantly, completely unperturbed. Of course he would be, this was the completion of all his carefully laid schemes. Her mother had once fondly told him he could charm the birds out of the trees and persuade them to try the seas instead.

So Jocelyn had tried her best to dissuade him, between shouting, stamping her feet and begging she had tried everything. Valentine had been utterly determined. He had taken her hands in his and listened to her pleas before calmly explaining that there were certain things regarding the matter she did not understand. Still she'd begged him, because she had known Amatis since her girlhood and she'd been like an older sister to Jocelyn. They had learnt to sew and sing and dance together, they had even gone to court together, tightly gripping each other's hands behind their spreading gowns for courage on their first entrance. Amatis had shared in her triumphs too; she'd held her train on her coronation and smiled through her own disappointed heartbreak when Jocelyn had announced her pregnancy. But Valentine had ruled that she was not to get involved in the matter, insisting her distress was bad for the baby. So when the woman she loved like a sister had been on her knees with her face smeared with tears of grief, begging Jocelyn to intercede and save her she'd had no choice but to turn away and state pathetically that there was nothing she could do.

The guilt would stay with her forever.

As a girl, when she'd first fallen in love with Valentine and held the locket he'd given her and his promise of marriage close to her heart she had sworn to herself she would be a good queen, that she would use her power well to reward and protect those she loved. Yet when Amatis had needed her most she had turned her face away.

However reluctantly, she had still done absolutely nothing and that was unforgivable. Officially the story was that Amatis had received and answered a calling, taking her vows with a glad heart. If anyone remembered how she'd begged and wept and sworn that her darling husband would not let this happen they did not mention it. Courtiers were gifted with exceptionally short memories.

Jocelyn suspected on the surface she was no different from the rest of them, donning her perfect smile and waiting patiently to meet the woman who had supplanted one of her dearest friends.

Guessing at her turbulent thoughts Valentine took her hand, and entwining her fingers with his. "Peace, dearest. You can survive one dinner can't you?" He murmured to her. Obstinately, Jocelyn didn't even move her head to acknowledge his words.

"I know you are still angry with me and given how this looks I suppose you have every right to be. But I promise you Jocelyn I _will_ tell you everything. One day I will make you understand-"

"When Valentine?" she demanded with exasperation, struggling to keep her voice down. Angry as she was it wouldn't do for any for the lingering servants to sense discord between their monarchs and gossip.

"For months you've been promising me this… this revelation of yours and _still_ I am waiting!" .

"I did not want to upset you any more than I already had." Her husband pressed on in an undertone, "I cannot have you troubled in your condition" he dipped his head towards her swollen stomach. "When our son is born I will explain everything."

Jocelyn sighed. Valentine's attempts to placate her and abate her curiosity left her with more questions than ever. Still, she didn't remove her fingers from where they were wound around his. She hated fighting with him and he was right, she needed to stop thinking about the Graymarks and think of her baby instead.

"Or our daughter" she reminded her husband softly. Valentine smiled at her indulgently although he stopped short of agreeing with her.

Jocelyn rolled her eyes, ultimately Valentine was a man like any other and he wanted a son and heir. More than a man like any other in fact, because he was a King and Idris needed a prince to succeed him. Jocelyn knew her duty, she was the king's wife and she would give him a son, but she couldn't help playing with the notion of a little girl in her mind; a daughter whom she could dress in pretty clothes and braid her hair and watch grow into a little lady. Besides, she and Valentine were both young and this was their first baby, regardless of whether it was a boy or a girl more children would assuredly follow. God would surely bless their marriage, and so she was content to distract herself from her present discomfort by conjuring up images of a nursery filled with her brood of little silver haired Morgensterns.

Unfortunately she was seized from her reverie by the herald's announcement, " Your Majesties, the Duke and Duchess of Broceland." The King nodded his assent and the doors flew open to admit the happy couple. Stephen looked as he always had, swaying into the king's private chamber as though it were his own with all of his usual arrogance intact, even as he made his mandatory bow. He seemed to contain enough confidence for both of them, given that the woman, or rather the girl who crept in behind him was seemingly glad to sink to her curtsey and disappear behind her husband's shoulder.

Young as she was Jocelyn still suspected the new Duchess would be at least a head taller than her but she was slender, if not skinny, and the combination of snowy skin and light gold hair reminded Jocelyn of a daisy, so dainty and pretty. She seemed so delicate, hiding her hands in her sleeves and letting her gaze flit around the royal rooms with barely contained wonder before letting her wide hazel stare fall on the plates of food offered with utter astonishment. Valentine had told her that the Mountclaires were a illegitimate branch of the royal Valois family, but this pale slip of a girl was looking around her as though she'd never seen such grandeur before.

It soon became apparent that Valentine had chosen well. This lady was not only fair where her predecessor had been dark but throughout the meal that ensued Jocelyn realised that Celine Herondale remained silent where Amatis would have offered an opinion, and her dark eyes were tentatively impassive where the last Duchesses' blue ones would have held a contemplative passion. Amatis' voice had always rung out with unhindered confidence where Celine's barely rose above a whisper, and Amatis would have been at the centre of the conversation while Celine only spoke when she was directly addressed and saw no alternative but to attempt a reply.

The only thing she seemed to share with the woman who had sat in her place before her was the way in which she looked at her husband. She looked at Stephen as though he was the first sunrise she'd ever seen after a life spent underground. Such plain adoration was something Jocelyn had seen for years in Amatis' expression yet somehow she had never managed to see the Duke through Amatis' eyes. He was certainly handsome but his personality had always left something to be desired as far as Jocelyn was concerned; a spoiled boy who was his mother's precious darling and had everything in his life handed to him wrapped neatly in a velvet ribbon. He had always been full of empty charm with not an ounce of courage or consideration to back it up, Jocelyn doubted that a sincere or serious thought had ever passed between those sun and honey curls in his life. And as much as she blamed herself for letting Amatis go without putting up a real fight she hated Stephen for it even more, the woman had worshipped the ground he had walked upon for years and would willingly have died for him a thousand times over, but he hadn't bothered to lift a finger to help her when the going got tough. She knew that he was the King's distant cousin and the most powerful noble in the land but she just couldn't bring herself to love the man.

An opinion that only solidified as the dinner progressed, he neither looked nor spoke to his new wife through the duration of the meal although she didn't seem to be annoyed in the slightest. Valentine was keen to engage her and Jocelyn was surprised at his soft tone in addressing her, like she were some sort of wounded animal he was careful not to scare off. In general her husband was an aloof man, always conscious of his royal station and what was expected of him and careful to always give the right impression, distancing himself from others to prove he was a monarch before he was a man. His kind words were few and hard to come by, but his heart was constant and the only people he'd ever exposed a sliver of it to had been his parents and his wife. Yet he was ready enough to show the fragile Frenchwoman his kindness and in return he received a sizeable portion of those venerating eyes.

Jocelyn wondered vaguely if she should feel threatened by the amount of attention the pretty young girl was receiving, especially now wives in Idris were becoming disposable.

Hastily she halted her fretting. She was being ridiculous; Valentine loved her more than anything and she was carrying his child. He would never do anything to hurt her. Besides, with a closer study it became apparent he was looking at the new Duchess in the way one looked at a cute puppy, or a favoured niece. There wasn't a hint of lust in the way he regarded her. Reassured, she took another grape, savouring the sweet taste that exploded in her mouth once her teeth sunk in.

Every so often the shining hazel glance would snag on Jocelyn, only to dart away upon eye contact. Noting the fascination his new cousin seemed to have with his wife Valentine smiled at the women encouragingly, "You must come to court, my lady."

Jocelyn straightened in her chair, discomfort suddenly sparking. She was far from ready to see this stranger in Amatis' place in her train, or sitting in the Duchesses' seat at state dinners. "After the baby is born, of course," Valentine amended quickly.

Jocelyn cleared her throat desperately, "Now, now my lord! Surely the Duchess will want to get settled in her new house first. And we cannot be so selfish as to steal her away immediately, I'm sure the Duke will want his wife to himself for a while" she couldn't resist throwing in the sugary reprimand while fixing a penetrating stare on Stephen.

He poorly stifled a snort and lowered his goblet, "She can come to court" he drawled. Clearly the notion of being severed from his wife was crippling.

Celine's head swivelled back and forth, between the queen and the Duke as though she were watching a particularly intriguing tennis match and not witnessing the disappointing measure of her husband's affection.

"Excellent!" Valentine diplomatically intervened, briskly clapping his hands at the hovering servants to clear the table, who immediately swooped in on the remaining dishes like a hoard of obedient harpies.

Jocelyn tossed her napkin at the table and fought to keep her forehead smooth of a scowl. Instead she directed her frustration to the ornate armrest, gripping it tightly and trying to lift herself and her heavy bulk out of the chair. However it wasn't long before she hit difficulty, her precious burden was making even the simplest of manoeuvres a trial, incompatible as the weight of the large child was with her own petite body. Her weight wobbled precariously at her attempted rise before she promptly flopped back down to her seat in defeat.

A slim arm lowered into her field of vision and she glanced up from the narrow, delicate wrist and gold brocade sleeve to the new Duchess of Broceland's curiously considerate expression. A quick scan of the room confirmed that the men had already wandered outdoors and Jocelyn's maid had quickly made a respectful retreat when the Duchess had moved to help her mistress.

Much as she wanted to shove the helping arm away and heave herself onto her feet Jocelyn was quite sure the ascent would be far from graceful or queenly and could conclude with her backside on the floorboards. Instead she swallowed her pride and grasped the proffered assistance, wondering too late if this slip of a girl could even hold her weight; she certainly looked as though a half-hearted nudge in the right direction could knock her over. Fortunately Celine was stronger than she looked and the queen managed to stand up safely.

Even now that she was in a more dignified procession, Jocelyn struggled with her ebbing embarrassment as her eyes flickered back to her assistant. "Thank you" she managed at length, folding her hands over her swollen belly and swallowing uncertainly.

"Your Majesty." Celine sounded equally wary in her soft, musical French.

"It seems we have been thrown over in favour of some masculine pursuits" she continued with a terse laugh. She was going to kill Valentine for this. How could he promise to be by her side at all times and then flee at the first opportunity? He had sworn on his honour not to leave her alone with the new Lady Herondale and yet here she was. What in God's name was she supposed to do with the woman?

"Where have they gone?" Celine asked, frowning at the empty hallway as though it had stolen her husband.

"Riding most likely. Valentine spends as much time as possible in the saddle. I used to go out with him." These days she was mostly kept at rest with unexciting, calming pastimes that would keep her and the child she carried out of any possible danger. True enough, a long day spent listening to her ladies practise their Latin held no risk, save the possibility of expiring from sheer boredom.

"It is also so with Stephen. And he reads, almost constantly"

"You don't accompany him?" More than a small part of her was morbidly curious about how the new Duke and Duchess lived together, she wanted to find out if his indifference towards her prevailed beyond mealtimes. "No" she laughed slightly, a faint trilling little sound, "I have no aptitude for riding."

"No?" Jocelyn was a keen enough horsewoman to find the notion incredulous. Although in perspective the Duke probably saw his wife's incompetence as a blessing, and a welcome escape from her company. Perhaps one of these days Stephen would decide not to ride home.

Meeting the expectant look from her waiting maid Jocelyn realised she should probably retire to her chambers, but she had spent so much time resting indoors that she suddenly longed to feel the wind on her face and hear the early summer birdsong in her ears. Besides she only had a few days until she would be shut up in preparation for the birth, and she wanted to relish the sparse freedom she had left. If she couldn't ride, then a walk would have to suffice.

"Let's go to the gardens! They're beautiful with the blossoms in bloom and we should be able to see the men ride out and return."

Celine obediently trotted out on her future mistresses' heels and followed Jocelyn's lead down the paths and walkways, slowing her pace to match the queen's waddle and staring around as though everything her eyes encountered was new and exciting. When she finally wearied Jocelyn guided her companion to a stone bench in a patch of leafy shade and fidgeted about on the flat, cold surface as she tried to get comfortable.

"You find Idris agreeable then?" she edged her way into some small talk with her new acquaintance. Celine perched on the seat beside her, still sitting rigidly straight and poised like she were ready to flee at the slightest alarm. "Yes. Yes it's all very beautiful."

For the short time ensuing they chattered on meaninglessly. Well, Jocelyn chattered on while her companion held vigil over the road the King's party would return to the palace by and offered very few opinions.

Then her attention seemed to shoot back to Jocelyn all at once, halting her in the middle of a story about how Valentine had planted the bluebell garden here for her during their courtship.

"They all say that the King adores you."

The comment caught Jocelyn completely off guard. "I suppose they do," she began slowly, trying to arrange her scattered thoughts. "He loves me as I love him. I am fortunate that I have a husband who cares for me." As soon as the words left her mouth she longed to thrust her hands into the empty air and seize them back; the last thing she wanted was to draw comparisons between her own marriage and the Duchesses' evidently empty if not unhappy one. Celine's suddenly pensive expression made her fear that it was too late. Jocelyn longed to change the subject and go back to prattling on about the shrubbery but when the younger woman's eyes finally returned to hers she there was something in them that halted any further speech and dried up her next words on her lips. Celine scanned her face as though she were judging something, and then apparently decided to take a leap of faith.

"I too am lucky."

Jocelyn gaped at her, astounded. Celine gave a curt shake of her head that left her amethyst earrings trembling in her ears even after she had stopped moving. "In my father's house…." She began and trailed off, then gulped down another breath and pressed on. "My father was not always gallant. He was a harsh man and sometimes a cruel one. My mother learned to bear it all in silence, she was probably too scared to speak out but I could not- he would always find fault in what I did- I would try so hard to please him and yet he never- and he would find ways of keeping me locked up in that house- I could never leave or go anywhere. And I thought I would die like that- so frightened- and then _he_ came." Jocelyn blinked in numbing astonishment. Idris had no national language and the royal court tended to speak a mixture of French and German, so Jocelyn was essentially fluent in the language, but Celine's speech in her rapid and heavy French was hard to keep up with and even as she comprehended the words Jocelyn struggled to absorb their meaning. Celine looked as surprised as she felt, as though she couldn't believe what she had just said either.

It was the reverence with which Celine referred to the 'he' at the end of her outpouring that had really caught Jocelyn's attention. Had Stephen somehow reconciled himself with the loss of his wife quickly enough to court another? Or was this courtship what had driven him to put his wife aside in the first place while the obvious convenience encouraged him to put the blame on Valentine?

"He was so thoughtful, writing me letters and urging my father to be kinder to me, swearing that he would be kind to me even if my father was not. I could not believe it, that after so long my prayers had been answered- and by a king no less!"

The shock of her words singed Jocelyn and she couldn't tear her gaze from the young Frenchwoman's swiftly moving lips. "Valentine? My Valentine wrote to you? Spoke to you?"

"Yes. But it was nothing improper!" Celine hastened to add. "He said he would help me escape, find me a husband and see me find the love I had never known before." Her cheeks warmed slightly as she spoke of love, more as though she hated herself for having voiced her dreams than rather than out of doubt such hopes would come to fruition. "And so he found me Stephen. For that I am fortunate. Because my husband is… gentle with me."

Her gratitude left Jocelyn feeling hollow; the idea of Stephen's icy disdain being a welcome relief made her wonder what dreadful life the poor girl had come out of. Without thinking she reached out and laid her hand over Celine's. Now that they were sitting so close together Jocelyn could see that the other girl's eyes were not as dark as she'd previously assumed, the brown depths were split by cracks of green and slivers of gold. "Then perhaps you will be happy here?"

"I hope so, I hope…" her thoughts faded into silence and she grew thoughtful again. "Although I fear I do not make him happy. Stephen, that is. And after all that he has done for me, above all I want to make him happy."

"That will come in time" Jocelyn looked into the forlorn heart-shaped face and couldn't stop herself voicing some kind of reassurance. No one as young and as pretty Celine was should be as sad as she was.

"I don't know. He knows so much, and speaks so well that I never know what to say to him."

Jocelyn clutched at the shreds of their previous conversation for some words of comfort, "Perhaps you could read some of his books, then you will have something to talk about."

"I don't read very well." Celine admitted without any shame. It was far from uncommon for a girl to recognise little more than her own name in letters, and Jocelyn was constantly forgetting that she was one of the fortunate few who had been educated, her father had always been adamant his little girl would have the best of everything, learning included. For most men as long as their daughters were well enough practised in the running of households and the womanly graces that may appeal to prospective husbands they needed no further education.

"Well it hardly matters" Jocelyn insisted, "Stephen is a man like any other and when you have children with him you two will have that in common."

It was the truth, after all. Even women who loathed their husbands found comfort in their sons and daughters. Jocelyn had seen it plenty of times amongst the nobility and it had been the one promise her mother had been able to make her growing up, although as it turns out she had been especially lucky in that regard.

To her horror Celine blushed again, fixing her eyes back on the road. "I do not know" she glanced at Jocelyn with something bordering on desperation. "He rarely…" Her heads bobbed down again and her next words were barely audible "He has not spent a night with me since our wedding night."

That revelation was almost as shocking as her history. Celine was far from what you would consider undesirable, in fact she was undoubtedly a beauty, with the kind of clear skin and thick blonde hair Jocelyn had always longed for. And from years of listening to Amatis' hopes while she and Stephen had tried for a child she knew he was far from incapable.

"He was with you on your wedding night?" Jocelyn searched for clarification. Celine did not respond beyond a brief nod. Well, for all his confident blustering it seemed even Stephen Herondale did not have the pluck to directly disobey Valentine by refusing to consummate the marriage his King had so painstakingly arranged for him.

Fortunately she was saved from replying any further by the tell-tale rumble of hoof beats on the dry road. Celine hastily straightened up and fixed her gaze back on the approaching vision of the horsemen before her.

"I love him" she announced, with simple conviction. "That matters more than anything. I know it has not been long since his last wife went away and I think he still misses her. But he is my husband now, in every way. And in time I know he will love me."

Jocelyn found herself at a loss for words with this woman yet again. Somehow she was filled by an irrational urge to do something, to help her in some way. "Celine- listen to me."

Reluctantly she tore her eyes away from the riders and looked at her queen.

"If you ever find that you are unhappy again you must write to me. And I'll have you summoned to court so that you can live here with me."

"I am to come to court anyway" Celine reminded her as Valentine and his party came into view, Stephen close to Valentine as ever with his own mount merely an impetuous half stride behind the King's.

"And I will not be unhappy. Not with Stephen."

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

She should have been relieved at the Herondales departure but after they left Jocelyn couldn't settle, fidgeting and floating around her chambers in search of something other than a sadly beautiful smile and earnest hazel eyes to occupy her thoughts. She had even been robbed of the opportunity to chastise Valentine, soon after the Duke and his wife had said their goodbyes Valentine had excused himself to attend an audience with a German ambassador, who apparently wanted to deduce Valentine's thoughts on the peasant rebellion against the Duke of Wurttemberg that had just been put down, so her husband had disappeared soon after their visitors once a quick kiss had been bestowed on Jocelyn's cheek.

The queen paused her circling when she spied a familiar shape hovering around the corner to her presence chamber. "Luke!" she cried, moving towards him with as much speed she could muster in her swollen, ungainly state.

He offered a rather thin smile at her approach and lowered himself into a bow. "I didn't know you were back!"

"Only just returned" he reassured her.

"Well, how was Padua?"

He rolled his eyes, "Intellectual. And Italian. Never my favourite combination." Jocelyn knew that Luke would always prefer to be here, and God knew she wished for his presence often enough but in light of recent events involving his sister and Luke himself the King was finding more and more reasons to keep Luke away from court, or better still, out of the country. Hence the recent pointless journey to the university in Padua where he was to interview some men that the king had no real interest in.

Silently Jocelyn gave a prayer of thanks that Luke had not been here an hour ago, though judging by the strained muscles in his face and the fact that his smile looked set to slip into a grimace at any provocation she suspected he knew all about the King's dinner guests.

"What's she like?"

Jocelyn didn't need to ask him who he meant.

"A beauty," she told him simply.

Luke winced, "I was afraid of that. Anything beyond her good looks?"

Jocelyn shrugged, torn up inside over how to reply. "I suppose… she's very quiet and is startled when anyone speaks to her. A timid, pretty thing. He doesn't seem exactly taken with her but she- perhaps that was just some show to placate me? After all, everyone knows how I feel on the matter. Are you going to tell Amatis this?"

Luke shrugged, scratching at the dark stubble on his chin. "There's no guarantee I'll be able to tell Amatis anything. There is hardly a great deal of correspondence making it past the convent walls. But I'll try. And when I do I'll say that her nose is too big and she only has one eyebrow."

Jocelyn gave a bark of laughter before growing thoughtful. "I don't know Luke. I feel…I feel sorry for her."

Luke stared at her incredulously, "Sorry for her?" he demanded his tone on the verge of freezing, "Was a nice family meal really all it took for you to turn your coat?"

Jocelyn frowned and squared her shoulders defensively, "She has about as much free will in this as your sister does!"

"Her wrists are hardly raw from the shackles! I doubt that-"

"Of course you do! You don't understand, and you never will!"

"Understand what?" Luke snapped impatiently.

"You think life at court is hard? Try surviving it in a dress! You have no idea what is like to be a woman in this world, when your whole life is on the whim of others. When the only time you matter is when you are desired or bearing an heir! You're either a wife or a whore and from what I've seen neither is a particularly secure position. So forgive me, Lucian Graymark, for trying to make myself a little more agreeable because it increases my worth a little!"

Luke shuffled his feet and had the good grace to look guilty. "I'm sorry Jocelyn. I'm not really angry with you. More myself." He emitted a long sigh and rubbed his crumpled brow, "How have we come to this?"

"I don't know" Jocelyn murmured, temper abating.

Luke fixed a sorrowful look on her. "I did not come here solely to quiz you."

Cold foreboding rose in Jocelyn's chest, "Then why?"

"I- I needed to tell you myself."

Jocelyn nipped at her lip with anxiety, staring at her best friends face and trying to extract the bad news from his troubled features.

"I'm leaving."

"What? Where to this time? And when will you be back? You know I wanted you to be here when the baby-"

"Jocelyn I'm not coming back."

She shook her head rapidly, as though to shake the words out of her ears. "But that's not- I'll speak to the King and-"

"The King is the one who has sent me away. To Rome, I think. And he has advised me not to return with any haste." .

"No- Valentine wouldn't do that." She sliced his claim apart, full of vehement resistance, "He knows what you mean to me, especially now!"

"His Majesty would be enraged if he knew that I had told you, you aren't supposed to know anything at all."

"Why?" She wrung her hands at him furiously.

"You know why."

Jocelyn pressed her cold fingers to her temples, the slim gold band of her wedding ring gleaming against the white flesh. "No. no, no, no." Eventually her protestations trailed away into a moan.

Her friend's eyes were suddenly sombre, "Jocelyn, have you ever considered that Valentine is not the man you think he is?"

"You're wrong" she choked out desperately, "He wouldn't. You can't…"

Luke simply stared at her for the longest time, eyes filled with an almost unendurable sorrow. He caught her arms and held her steady. "He knows Jocelyn."

The claim should have stopped her heart but somehow instead it spurred the fear racing through her on and set it beating ever faster. For months the three of them had been dancing around this, like nervous horses about to enter the jousting lines. As though ignoring it would make it go away. That had been utter folly; Jocelyn should have known that the untended wound would fester.

With great difficulty she forced a shallow breath into her lungs and tried once again to muster the words that would make this right. "What Valentine _knows_ is that I love him. He _knows_ that you are my dearest friend and I love you also but in my heart there is only a place for my husband. Therefore he must surely realise that my soul and body is also entirely his, that I belong to him entirely."

Luke stared at her, a sickly sheen of sweat glistening on his brow, "He is fully aware that there is nothing between us. He just intends to keep it that way."

Jocelyn's knees shook and she clasped her frantically tremoring fingers together under her sleeves, but still held her voice steady when she spoke, "As well he should! You said you _loved_ me, and then the way you acted! You blatantly refuse to retract what you have said, all of this just as I discover I am with child! Valentine is a king Luke, before he is your friend or my husband!" She forced the volume of her words to a whisper before continuing, "There can be no doubts as to the parentage of the child I carry! I am to give birth to the heir to the throne and therefore His Majesty must also be _seen_ to have no doubts that the child is his! There is nothing between us Luke and there never will be!" She insisted, dropping her hand to flutter over her bulging stomach as though her touch could protect it from such dangerous slander.

At her final annunciation her friend's expression momentarily wavered into one of such acute pain that it almost prompted Jocelyn into an apology, then she steeled herself. It was for the best. For her own position, for that of her child and especially for Luke himself this was what she needed to do. No more ties.

"What I said" he began roughly, "Everything I've done, it could cost me everything I hold dear."

"Exactly, you will never be Chancellor now, and for what?"

"That is not the loss I care for! Chancellorship be damned, I am afraid of losing _you!_ I have put at risk your friendship, beyond that Valentine's friendship and my own sister's happiness. But I regret not one part of it."

In spite of her resolve, she couldn't watch him suffer and not offer some kind of comfort. "What happened to Amatis wasn't your fault."

"It was not unrelated, I suspect."

Looking at him standing so dejectedly in her lavish rooms Jocelyn felt something tug at her heart. This was the man she'd known all of her life and of course she cared for him, perhaps not in the way he wanted her to but nonetheless, she had to do everything in her power to fix this, to keep him here at court. Because she needed him. Here she had her ladies and her allies but Lucian Graymark was the only one the Queen of Idris had in the world whom she could call her friend, the only one besides Valentine who loved her for the person she was rather than the crown on her head.

"Give it time," she pleaded, "Go for now. When I give him a son he won't be able to refuse me anything; then I can request you return to court. I cannot guarantee a lofty position but at least you will have a place here."

Luke nodded, still a touch morosely, "I'll write to you when I arrive. I don't know how I'll get a letter past him but I'll think of something. Jocelyn…" He shook his head, voice trembling, "Wake up Jocelyn, for your own sake and for the child's."

It was all finally too much and Jocelyn fell into his arms, speechless and shaking so badly that she barely felt the whispering warmth of the kiss he pressed to her forehead before releasing her. What was one more risky move?

"Goodbye," he said with mournful simplicity.

After he was gone Jocelyn had no choice but to retreat back to her ladies in waiting, settling herself in her usual spot in a patch of sunlight and pressing a cold hand to her face miserably, feeling the icy surface of the thin gold band that was her wedding ring bite into the skin of her brow. If she was the most powerful and coveted woman in the country, with the child of the man she loved growing strong inside her, then why was her chest aching and her cheeks chilled with tears?

 _-0000000000000000-_

* * *

 ** _Chatton House, Broceland, Mid May 1514_**

Wearily Stephen Herondale marched into his bedchamber, kicked off his riding boots and pulled off his hat, flinging it in the direction of the small table before him and hastily smoothed down the rumpled blond curls on the top of his head left in its wake. Then he gladly dropped into a longed for seat.

It had been a long day. A long month in fact. The chair beneath him creaked in protest as he shifted his weight, searching for some comfort after an especially unpleasant day with his mother. Not that any day with his mother could be considered pleasant, but these days were especially bad. The insufferable woman never had been blessed with the ability to hold her tongue and with her only child she had long ago abandoned any attempts at tact. She had no qualms about telling him plainly what he already knew: Stephen was running his dukedom to ruin in a hundred or so different ways, and his life. There were dozens of positions of authority he should be holding with the King's blessing but had failed to secure, like chancellorship now that Graymark had put himself out of the running with his loud mouth and pathetic, incessant clinging to the queen's skirts. Therefore he was wasting his time at court and consequently his influence with the King, contrary to his mother's anticipation, was lessening rather growing.

Then there was the small matter of his legacy. His mother had been very clear on that front, as she had been for many years. She needed a healthy grandson in the nursery at Chatton House which had been empty for so long in order to die happy.

Stephen was long beyond caring whether or not she died peacefully or happily, he just wished she would hurry up and expire. He rather suspected the old witch would irritate him dying too, the whole sordid affair would likely drag out for weeks and there would be several cases of him being shaken awake in the small hours and sending for the priest only for his lady mother to revive herself, to continue telling him of all the mistakes he was making in life and what a disappointment he was to her and the name Herondale, probably for weeks to come.

The thought was often maddening enough to set him off on grinding his teeth, as it did at the moment. He had been naïve enough to believe that once his father was dead he would no longer have to shoulder the crushing weight of his parent's unrealistic expectations for their only child; that the old duke's passing would see his mother retire to the smaller estates of her jointure settlement and leave him alone. If only.

Though he knew for all the Dowager Duchess' complaints of her son's frivolity, debauchery and profligacy he was not as unlike her beloved husband as she would make out. That was doubtless what prompted the harshness she exercised with her son, out of fear he too would be lost to her. A fear she acted on by effectively pushing her son further away. Typical woman's logic.

Stephen knew for a fact that his father's affair with a certain Welsh tart in the kitchens had produced several little blue eyed Herondales, most significantly his half-brother in Alicante who had also been well provided for in their father's will. Not that Stephen had any difficulties with his bastard siblings, in fact he even liked them, especially his younger brother. Because he knew how the mention of their existence alone was enough to make his mother irate, he naturally therefore made no secret of his own fondness for them, solely for Lady Imogen's incensed response. She liked to pretend her dear spouse had never wandered from her side long enough to sire three bastards and that all in her marriage had been perfect. Stephen could hardly blame his father, he'd leap into a kitchen wench's arms too if it meant escape from his mother. His paternal similarities had also not gone unnoticed by his father in his final hours either, he had spent his last wheezing breaths to banish the young Duke to be from his deathbed, unwilling even in his last moments to try and make amends with his family. The damned man had lived and died a coward.

Staring at the light reflected in the gold candlesticks on the table before him Stephen considered how different things would be if Amatis were still here. She'd have followed him in with a cup of wine, a kiss and half a dozen solutions to his problems. If he closed his eyes he could imagine her gentle, practised fingers running through his hair and firmly spoken solutions in his ears. God, he missed her. Thinking back on their last few months together Stephen realised he had taken her completely for granted; he missed her brilliant mind and fearless clashes with his mother, her ringing laughter as she unpinned her hood and shook out her brown curls every evening, the warmth of her mouth under his and her sternly uncompromising yet quiet rule over his household. He hadn't realised how much of what had happened in his house had been at her command, until after her departure he had noticed small aspects of his routine had slipped out of the picture, there was no longer a drink awaiting him on his desk when he went to work, nor was his robe laid out on his bed every evening. The reality of all she had done for him in his oblivion had only been driven home when a young maid had approached him sheepishly one evening with her arms full of his clothes and admitted breathlessly she did not know what to do with them because the Duchess had always sewn his shirts.

Stephen had gone through his days with her in a heady ignorance of her consideration and devotion. Instead he had been irritated by her pleas for his intercession on behalf of her brother who had fallen spectacularly out of favour with the king and impatient with her lack of progeny. As far as he could see there was no reason why after years of marriage there should be no heir to his duchy; the couple had been married young enough, their nuptials having taken place after Amatis' fifteenth birthday almost a decade ago, and he did his duty by his wife often enough. Therefore the fault for the lack of issue must be hers.

It was always the wife's fault of course, Valentine had assured him, see how the fault of Eve cast man from Eden? It is because of the inherent female weakness that women must suffer the pains of childbed and some women of sin are left with barren wombs. It had been through such talks in quiet corners of His Majesty's chambers that Stephen had been so persuaded to leave his wife and send her away to a nunnery. Watching his younger cousin's preparations for the birth of an heir for the kingdom had been the final straw. Stephen Herondale resolved to finally prove his dead father wrong and take a step in the direction both his mother and Valentine had urged him to, to finally become his own man, not a weak boy ruled by his insubordinate and disobedient wife. And in order to become a real man he needed prove his own capability of having sons.

Now he had a new willing and innocent bride courtesy of the King to bear his children, yet for all his eagerness to provide a successor for his title he had not the heart to visit Celine's bed. He could not look at her at help seeing everything she wasn't. She could not have been further from Amatis and yet what should have enabled him to open his heart to her left his affection firmly sealed. There was no use in trying with Celine, she would never amount to even half of what his first adored wife had been.

Which left him with nothing better to do than swig back enough wine to drown the sorrows that thus far seemed determined to float. He'd been a damned fool. He would never win Valentine's trust or even his love, he would never make his mother proud or make amends with his dead father, worst of all he would never be with the woman he loved again. The more he drank the blurrier the dense blue of his bed curtains and hazier the dying flames in the grate became while the reality of his situation became ever clearer. Everything that had been good or promising about his life he had torn apart with his own two hands. He had fallen from the King's good graces for trying to stand by Lucian Graymark and even his hasty agreement to marry Celine had not mended the rift that had caused with his monarch. Though the palatial home of Chatton House towered around him in a testament to his supposed prosperity and prowess his life was in ruins. At least he was a wreckage he had caused himself. He had at least managed to take control of his fate long enough to successfully bring about his own destruction: that he had done right.

The timid creak of an opening door made him look at his wife, edging her way into the room and making her way over to him on tiptoe. Stephen had once wondered if she'd feared him, but no, worse than that it seemed she had more hopes of him than his mother ever could.

Celine was lovely to look at, he could admit that much. Tonight as she crept towards him soundlessly the ivory of her skin and nightgown in the swaying moonlight and candlelight gave her an ethereal beauty. The ghost of the wife he could never love, somehow also the ghost of the absent wife he longed for haunting him.

He was so lonely in this sadness and this hollowing disappointment that he could scarcely wait to devastate her. Then she would truly belong in this shambles of a life with him.

"My lord?" she chimed faintly.

He knew from having heard her handmaids gossip that every night she sat awake for hours in the huge and lonely bed he had assigned to her, waiting for him, hoping for him. Likely she had been told dreamy tales of how the first few months of marriage would be for her, of the attentive and passionate husband unable to spend more than an hour from his besotted wife. He knew letting her meet his mother had been a mistake too, her undisguised confident expectation of a bouncing baby boy before the year was out had put ideas in his young wife's head. Unable to explain to his pretty, devoted spouse that he too wanted a son, just not with her, Stephen had remained silent on the matter and absent from the bedchamber. Clearly this was the night her patience had run out. Stephen remembered little of being with her on their wedding night beyond an impatient fumbling in the dark having filled himself with wine beforehand. She couldn't have any particularly fond memories to encourage her to repeat the ordeal.

"Do you know why I married you?" Stephen demanded, rising from his seat and going to her, stopping only once they were chest to chest.

It seemed Celine had decided to mimic his policy of handling unpleasant truths, she now adopted a deafening silence.

Exhaling with a brief burst of laughter Stephen wound his hand into a lock of the silken fair hair falling loose over her shoulders. She really was a classic beauty, like the Athena Parthenos; all ivory and gold with that unrelenting gaze. Expectantly she tipped her head upwards, her lips parted slightly and warm breaths rippling against his cheeks.

"Because this is hell" his whispered to her now, thumb rising to caress her jawline, "and hell gets lonely."

She made no move to extract herself from his hold, though his words had been partially to scare her off. "Then let me make you happy." There was no entreating in her voice, this was no plea for attention but a simple offer. "You want a child. I want a child."

He made no reply, just staring at her, her unchartered features, her untouched lips. The wine must have dulled what little conviction he had. This plan of abstinence had meant to be a punishment, both his and hers. Now he considered if having her as his wife in every way, if lying with her at night and living with her during the day would not be even worse and so even better. He laughed again, the humour shuddering into surrender.

He pulled his lips to hers.

 _-000000000000000-_

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 **A/N: And there we have it! For now at least. That was weird and fun to write, like ew Jocelyn, stop being attracted to Valentine. Poor Luke! As for Celine, she is perhaps _the_ character that intrigues me most in the series, so I couldn't resist the opportunity to write her. And Stephen well, what do you think? Considering the many past scandals and secrets I thought that prequel chapters would be a good idea, though don't worry Clary and Jace will be back next chapter with some intense and exciting stuff ahead :) **


	8. Smolder

**A/N: Because this chapter is really only a plot thickener and not the most eventful, I intend to give you a double treat for now, and you may have two for the price of one. I have also realised that my notes at the start of each chapter may not actually make sense on the chapter I have attached them to, like how previously I talked about how Clary's suitors were real men and so on without realising that at the point I had mentioned it you didn't know who they were besides the Dauphin Francois. That's because I am in fact a few chapters ahead of myself and so my little pea sized brain is struggling to absorb that not everything I've written to date has been seen by you guys yet. But I like to think I'm getting there, almost ten chapters in. Lightening fast reaction there.**

 **On another note the Tudors is a good enough watch, though it did periodically drive me up the wall when it unnecessarily rewrote history and here I mean the Margaret Tudor taking replacing Mary Tudor and even then inaccurately in season one. Natalie Dormer as Anne Boleyn however, now that I was so down for and she didn't disappoint, though I may be slightly biased when it comes to her, I genuinely think she could play Little Bo Peep and I would watch and praise her.**

 **I would also ask that you be patient with me and with Clary and Jace, yes they do have romance ahead, but right now there they are just starting to get to really know one another and given their circumstances neither is ready to leap into any serious relationship let alone one with each other! Remember that Clary expects to be sent away and married soon so she is not looking for love in Idris, and as for Jace, he has to be mindful that he should only be dealing with Clary on a professional level and he is the one being paid to try and ensure that she enters into an arranged marriage with his employer's son. That being said, I can promise is some (hopefully) cute Clace moments ahead, and soon, though not in _this_ chapter. The next one...maybe with a catalyst we'll start to make moves towards clace... **

* * *

_Chapter 7: Smoulder_

 ** _Chatton House, Broceland, May 1536_**

Because Simon had come to the conclusion that he needed his eyes in full operation he decided to look at Isabelle Lightwood the same way one would look at the sun: not for any great length of time and never directly. So far this carefully distanced admiration had gone unnoticed, not because Simon was particularly subtle (he feared the opposite were true) but simply because Isabelle would never spare someone as lowly placed as a musician a second glance.

This indifference hadn't wounded Simon in any way; he expected such treatment from the nobles and he knew that even if she had been a serving wench instead of lady he still wouldn't have had a chance because she was so beautiful.

So he resigned himself instead to a few snatched looks. The result? He could now perform his set well enough to avoid investing any real concentration in his performance, which left him free to allow a fleeting glance at her now and again. Just watching her walk through the room was enjoyable enough thanks to that sultry little sway of her hips and watching her sew was even more agreeable, because she would sit down and lean forward in a manner that complimented-and at times showcased- her bosom. Not that Simon was entirely shallow, but what could he do? The girl was a mortal Aphrodite and Simon was a sixteen year old boy with eyes. For now, at any rate.

Besides, her beauty was not all he liked about her, he had watched her going about her duties as Clary's lady in waiting for almost a month now and she had made quite the impression on him. She was no falsely mellow maiden like some of the others and her head was filled with far more than ribbons and dresses. If she had something to say she said it and if there was something she felt needed to be done she would do it. Feisty, practical and quick witted: she was everything Simon liked in a girl. It was all perfect save the small complication of there being more chance of an invading army of rabbits conquering Christendom than Isabelle Lightwood ever falling for him.

Clary had noticed within days of course, and while she hadn't actively discouraged it or betrayed him she hadn't encouraged it either. "You know she'll run you through if she notices" was in fact all that his friend had sing-songed cheerfully on the subject. As though she were one to talk. She had spending a lot of time courting the company of that handsome and complete ass of a French ambassador for someone who judged the inappropriate imaginings of others. According to her that was politics.

Simon refrained from being too harsh on his friend however, for all her dancing along the knife edge of hysteria when the news had arrived from England that their former queen had lost her head for her troubles, Clary had received it all in a grey faced silence. All she'd said on the matter was that it was what she'd expected, but it was obvious that she, along with the rest of Europe, was struggling to believe that an anointed consort could fall so easily and so spectacularly.

Simon was swiftly and willingly led out of his sombre reflections by Isabelle's briefly chiming laugh. This was not the first time he had invested such admiration in a girl. For just over a year he had been choosing the most unobtainable girls he could find to designate every perfection under the sun to along with his consequent admiration. Any stranger at all would suffice for him to toss his attentions at, starting with that young novice Marie at the convent of the Holy cross and moving on to Anna the baker's daughter from the village. Anything that would distract him from the way in which Clarissa Morgenstern had obliviously yet utterly broken his heart.

Nearly fifteen year old Simon should have known better than to fall in love with the princess who also happened to be his best and only friend. Sadly, Simon never had been very good at making sensible decisions. On one of those long summer afternoons when Clary could escape from chores and lessons to run through the fields and forest with him they had settled themselves in a patch of flecked, leafy shade and Clary had confessed that she had never been kissed. Simon had pointed out that it was hardly surprising, she had been raised in a convent and he hadn't been kissed either. Clary had pouted then, her stern little rosebud mouth sulking with her insistence that she wasn't actually going to be a nun and she was sure all other girls at fourteen had already had their first kiss.

So commenced the first of their afternoon kissing lessons. Well, they had been more explorations than lessons because neither of them had known what they were doing. Really there had been nought but an awkward crushing of lips, mumbled apologies, laughing fits and on more than one occasion banged foreheads and an almost-broken nose.

Last summer had passed much the same as all the others had, only now Simon was more aware of how Clary had started to grow into a woman's body and occasionally the normalcy was thrown over in favour of another kissing session. Over the months there were more and more stolen moments, stolen kisses and in the end a stolen heart.

Only one.

By the time the hay season was finished Clary pulled away from him one day and told him with a laugh and a blush that it was too strange, like kissing her brother, so Simon had smiled back with hasty embarrassment and agreed, thus concluding their kissing sessions. As far as he knew Clary had yet to find another subject to practise on, but that was cold comfort when the girl you loved only loved you like a brother.

He had patched himself up as best he could and told himself it was better that it had ended before it had started; a commoners love for a king's daughter was doomed anyway, and had decided to heal himself by falling in love with someone else as soon as possible. Admittedly, at one point in the distant past this flinging-his-heart-at-someone-else- who-wouldn't-want-it-any-more-than-Clary-had strategy had been a failed attempt to make her jealous.

Things had progressed (or regressed depending on how you want to look at it) from there.

On the bright side, now that he had a new beautiful and unobtainable girl to pine after he also had a muse, therefore he was bound to become a successful musician. Isabelle's sweet apathy could flavour his songs for years if he kept this up.

Which is how he found himself gazing wistfully at her while she engaged Aline Penhallow in a not so lively game of cards one rainy afternoon. She adeptly shuffled the cards with nimble fingers before laying them out on the table, and as she bent towards Aline each time she dealt a card her bodice would meet the rim of the table so that the little gold and pearl crucifix dangling from her square neckline brushed the tablecloth, while plump curves of flesh were pushed upwards quite alarmingly. Simon's tried and failed to focus on the pendant, his fingers fumbled at the strings and then fell off them entirely and beside him Eric's voice quavered like a twelve year olds as Matt's lute screeched in agony when he tore out a string.

Guessing at the cause of their distraction Isabelle's head whipped around, the dark waterfall of her hair rippling down her back at the movement and her eyes flaring accusatorily. Dealing with the peril as tactfully as always, Simon panicked and flung his lute out of his arms.

What he intended to do next he wasn't entirely sure. Throw his hands up in surrender and beg for mercy? Fling himself at her feet and worship her with his face squashed into the carpet and arms stretching across the floor? Upon the unholy clang of his instrument striking the floor, the eyes of not only Isabelle but everyone else in the room were on Simon and he began to drown in a series of burning waves of embarrassment instead. He hastily fell to his knees and floundered after the instrument muttering a long list of disjointed phrases in what was probably utter gibberish, inwardly beseeching God to have mercy and end it all now.

There was only one thing which could have made the situation worse and, naturally, it happened.

"I hope for your sake you play it better than you hold it. Otherwise I would advise you to seek out an alternative livelihood."

Simon reluctantly lifted his eyes from a worn pair of boots to a distinctively superior gold gaze. Trying to quell the desire to warm the ambassador's head significantly with the lute he had failed to reclaim at the cost of his dignity Simon struggled against a scowl. "I hope for your sake you speak to the princess with more courtesy than you do me, otherwise _you_ would need to consider an alternative livelihood."

Jace Herondale's eyes flashed dangerously and Simon's attention caught in the silver hilt of the dagger that peeked out at him from the leather at the ambassadors belt. Before he could fully form a intelligible thought or reach anything close to regret there were a pair of hands at his collar and he was being pulled half a pace forward into the ambassador's face. "What did you just find the audacity to utter to me?"

Reliable as ever, when the danger got serious, Simon got stubborn, although he had filled his stupidity quota for the day and Herondale was bigger than him, so his obstinacy stopped short of suicide and he remained silent.

To his surprise Jace laughed at the lack of a forthcoming response. "Not as stupid as you look then. I'm afraid I don't have a moment to spare to knock some manners into you just now, commoner. But I tell you this, if you think Clarissa Morgenstern's opinion of me will hinder any of my plans for her you can think again. It will be her father's choice that matters."

"If you honestly think that the princess will be mindlessly steered into anything she doesn't want then you don't know who you're working with."

"Ah. And the amusing little parrot has found his tongue again."

So this is how it ends Simon thought dully as the fabric at his throat was twisted.

Unexpectedly his salvation arrived in the form of Kaelie Whitewillow. "The princess isn't here" she informed the ambassador cheerfully before realising her tone had been a touch to familiar and added an "Excellency" a heartbeat too late. Jace had thankfully loosened his grip on Simon at the diversion and the musician managed to suck in a trickle of air.

"Where is she?"

"With the King" the little blonde informed him sweetly, "Perhaps I could escort you…?" The suggestion lingered in the air, to Simon it was appallingly obvious.

Everyone knew that the dainty little girl had an old and dying husband far away in some country estate and that she had recently set her sights on a handsome young envoy as a substitute. As for Herondale, well Simon would wager he was hardly a model of either chastity or propriety and would happily succumb to such a dalliance. In fact from having watched them flirt in these rooms when they thought no one was looking Simon would even be willing to bet that they had already given into temptation.

A treacherous little corner of his heart rejoiced at the notion of Jace spending his sweet words and kisses on Kaelie, then at least he wasn't Isabelle's sweetheart. Simon had nurtured fears to that effect ever since he had first laid eyes on the two gorgeous and haughty Frenchmen. Isabelle on _his_ arm, Isabelle riding with _him_ , pulling _him_ into a corner for some passionately heated discourse; the sights had plagued him for weeks.

It would hardly be unexpected if it were revealed they had some kind of relationship. They had the same sort of fire about them and they moved and talked together as a team in a way none of the other diplomatic parties did, like they had been together for years. Which he discovered they had with Jace having been a companion to her brother for years. Nonetheless, there was something more profound than a political acquaintance between the two of them and Simon simply prayed it wasn't romance. Now that the insufferable ambassador was courting another girl that was no longer a serious fear. He still hated the man, of course, as it was plain to see that he thought himself God's gift to mankind and that Simon was just a piece of everyday dirt on his shoe. Not that this was uncommon, being a nobody at court he was used to being treated as barely tolerable, he was just one step up from servant really. Utterly disposable.

But the way that knave spoke to Clary? Now she was far from disposable, yet on more than one occasion he had watched his friend fly about her rooms in a temper because of something the ambassador had said or done. Simon knew how much Clary hated being treated as a bargaining chip that would be pushed from hand to hand as though she had no mind of her own and that was exactly how the presence of the diplomats like Herondale made her feel.

Watching him drift off after Kaelie's cheeky smile and flicking skirts he felt a fresh surge of loathing, angrily jerking his clothes back into place after the tussle and meeting Eric's wide eyed gaze. Clearly he had coped with the near death experience in a more admirable fashion than he had thought. Sadly, now that the confrontation was over the eyes of Isabelle and all the other ladies had flittered back to whatever feminine task had occupied them previously.

Which left Simon to retrieve his instrument from the floorboards and slip back into obscurity. With no particular nobleman's attention he was just an instrument once again.

-00000000000000-

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Clary rushed up the steps to the great hall and anxiously brushed a stray curl back over her shoulder as she cast a final review over the flaring skirts of her best blue gown and tried to compose herself. Late as she was, she knew that her father would hate for her to arrive looking flustered. Her mother had impressed on her all her life that a princess kept her composure at all costs.

It was, sadly, the lesson she had always struggled with most. Arithmetic and Catechism? Very well. Languages and history? Easy. But Jocelyn had once told her that her face never could hold a secret and she knew that of late she had been letting her emotions run away with her. It was dangerous for any girl to let her feelings govern her, but in a princess it could be fatal. So, praying she at least _appeared_ to be the master of her features Clary neared the entrance to the hall and gave a nod to the doorman, lifted her chin and walked into her father's audience in what she hoped was an acceptable manner.

Each of her footsteps echoed off the tiled flooring as she approached the King. She registered the extravagant flooring clicking under her heels as she moved, the brightly coloured patterns underfoot must have been expensive, she automatically associated painted tiles with churches rather than houses. Aside from the ancient rooms of the Gard where the Kings of Idris resided before state ceremonies and so made a concerted effort to display their wealth and power, even the floors of royal abodes tended to be wooden or carpeted. She hadn't realised that the Carstairs, the residents of Chatton house were so affluent or prestigious.

Curtseying to her father she merely had a second to appreciate the glimmering patterns beneath her that her inner artist longed to properly study before her Valentine's hands cupped her chin as he lifted her face and bid her to rise.

Her father smiled at her as she straightened up, thankfully her tardiness seemed to have been overlooked. "Clarissa" he offered by way of a greeting, tucking her arm in his, "Come here."

Thoroughly curious, Clary followed his lead. For the very first time she could remember she was completely alone with her father, save the men at arms outside the closed doors behind her there were no lingering servants or hovering clerks nearby. Clary wasn't sure whether or not she was pleased with their new solitude. Ever since the traumatic outing with her brother she had been approaching the king with trepidation on everything. She had learnt the hard way that she should have been exercising the caution her mother had urged her to from the beginning, which she had foolishly swept aside as the paranoia of a woman who still harboured a bitterness towards her estranged husband. Now she half expected her father to reveal that underneath his charisma he was just as bloodthirsty and thrilled by chaos as his son any day now. Yet Valentine remained the aloof, measured gentleman he had always been.

"I wanted to keep you abreast of the developments of your marriage negotiations."

 _Your_ marriage negotiations Clary corrected mentally. _You are the one who wants the marriage, who will arrange it to your benefit and desires, I'm just the bride._ She didn't voice any of her discontent, of course. But she did feel the smile slip slightly from her face.

Valentine failed to notice, pressing on with whatever meagre details he felt it necessary to provide her with. "As you know, Cartwright completed his portrait of you and I had it dispatched to your suitors. The response was good. Very good" he continued, brimming with noticeable self-satisfaction, and his daughter could not quite dispel the mental image of a smug cat licking it's lips having just devoured a mouse. Cartwright must have really flattered her if these lords were eager, she knew from her looking glass that she had not inherited nearly as much of her mother's beauty as she would have liked.

"Because of the pressures from reformists both outside and within our borders it will have to be a Catholic prince, we need to defend our Church and maintain its influence. Therefore I have narrowed the field to three and I have procured a portrait of each for you."

Now Clary was definitely paying attention. One of the three men in the paintings before her would be her husband.

The thought sent her stomach lurching and nervous expectation throbbing through her with each heartbeat. The past two months had given her plenty of time to reconcile herself with having to wed a complete stranger and she had heard the names of those vying for her hand hundreds of times, but that was all they had been to her. Names. Now she would have faces.

Rationally she had always known that this marriage plan was real but still part of her had been able to go thinking it was just some kind of bad joke. The small swarm of diplomats clutching at her skirts and trying to drop a good word or two about this prince or that lord had all been quite amusing and in her mind it had all just been a play pretend; a game.

In the end she supposed it was indeed just a game, one with alarmingly high stakes. She was a piece in an intricate game of politics and power, insignificant as a person yet priceless as second in line to the Idrisian throne and a potential crown.

These men were real people, and they wanted to marry her. The king was still talking but Clary had tuned out, lost in the pounding tumult of her own thoughts until Valentine moved closer to the canvases and towed Clary along numbly beside him.

"Firstly we have Maximillian Hapsburg, nephew to the Holy Roman Emperor. He is not the Emperor's heir but he is a Hapsburg and they are the most powerful family in Europe. Any connection to them would be beneficial, both financially and politically. He resides in Italy and at the moment his father is King of Hungary, Croatia, Bohemia and Archduke of Austria." Valentine emitted a soft laugh, "One day the boy will have an impressive inheritance."

Father and daughter paused by the sketch of a young, round faced boy who looked as though he was trying very hard to look important. Clary had to sink her teeth into the tender flesh on the inside of her lip to stop her bubbling laughter. Her father drew her onwards after a silence that had likely been intended for a moment of serious contemplation while Clary struggled not to double over cackling.

It seemed that in the king's eyes his daughter was better off only learning of the pros of each suitor. No matter, Clary knew the cons herself. Maximillian, for instance, may be from the dynasty that ruled most of Europe but what her father neglected to mention was that a marriage to him would also mean a marriage into the Emperor's recently rekindled wars with France; a military expedition Idris would doubtless have to help fund at least, or worse, actively participate in if their snubbed neighbours in France decided to retaliate and send troops into their new enemy Idris. It would be idiocy and Clary hoped her father knew better than to provoke the powerful nation that they shared a border with. That wedding would virtually wage war on France, and that was not a war little agrarian Idris could hope to win.

And of course it had not escaped her notice that Maximillian was nine years old. She hoped her father had addressed this alliance first because it was the least likely; she had no burning desire to marry into the role of babysitter. There was no way in heaven or hell she would ever be able to take the Hapsburg suit seriously.

She was diverted from her amusement by the much more series threat of the slender, grave eyed and bearded man in the next portrait. "King James V of Scotland" Valentine introduced him as, "As King of the Scots, a marriage to him would immediately make you a queen."

 _Weak case_ Clary reflected, without pity. True, she would be a queen but of a faraway northern country where she heard the weather was miserable. Moreover, James Stuart was constantly poking at his neighbour Henry of England by sending swarms of Scotsmen over the border every few years only to be beaten back by the English forces, meanwhile there were the rumours he was simultaneously courting a French princess. Not that this was to be unexpected or even discouraged, there was no reason for James to exclusively pursue her when there were other allies to consider. It would also be hypocritical of her to condemn him for it, as she currently stood in front of three potential husbands her father was considering. But unlike the youthful and charming Spanish and French ambassadors the Scottish representative was a small, grizzled old man whom she struggled to understand when he spoke to her in his densely accented Latin, plus he smelt strange. For that and also at the prospect of living out the rest of her days in draughty castles and enduring harsh northern winters Clary was sure she did not want to be Queen of Scotland. So that only left… "Francois de Valois, Dauphin of France, Duke of Brittany." Clary allowed herself to look at this portrait properly, Isabelle's old words floating back to her "very handsome" she'd said, "Easy to love."

Not that Clary was naïve enough to look for love in a political match, but a girl of almost sixteen could dream. She needed to hope for some happiness and affection in her marriage, otherwise she would pitch herself off the battlements.

Before her was indeed a pleasant looking young man with squarely set shoulders, gleaming armour and what looked to be clear eyes and an honest gaze. He seemed regal, naturally, but not unapproachable. Up until now Jace Herondale had been the face of the French suit and Clary found herself scanning this strange prince's features and silently lamenting that he had a weaker jawline than Jace, that his eyes were a boring and ordinary blue, that his nose was shorter and more snub than Herondale's more aristocratic one and that his hair was not a curling gold. She was being ridiculous in feeling disappointed that her prospective husband was not as handsome as his ambassador she scolded herself. Of course he looked nothing like Jace Herondale, why should he?

Francois de Valois she mouthed to herself instead and tried to connect the name with the young man before her and banish any thoughts of Jace. She found that it rolled off her tongue quite nicely, befitting the detached but not altogether cold face that regarded her in return.

"As the eldest son of the King of France he will one day inherit his father's kingdom, one of the most powerful on the Continent. He is eighteen years old, two years your senior. With his lands bordering ours and our faith and interests much the same the alliance would be of mutual benefit. " Valentine paused again to allow the completion of her review.

She considered the unspoken drawbacks to the match. This marriage would still bring them into a war and the King of France was notoriously faithless in alliances. She'd lost count of the amount of times he had jumped between England and Spain over the last few decades. Not that he was to be especially blamed for only honouring a treaty when it was of immediate benefit to him, Clary suspected most kings acted thus and Francois was just more obvious about it. Eventually stepping back and tearing her eyes away from the Dauphin's to her father's she scrutinised the King.

"Your Majesty, if I might ask, who do you favour?"

Valentine's lips quirked into a smile, "At the moment, I pledge myself to none of them."

Still anyone's game then, Clary pondered, but did not drop her gaze or the question. "Yet you must have one you consider more closely than the rest."

"Not necessarily," Valentine remained evasive as he tucked Clary's arm back under his. "Is there one you suspect as being preferential Clarissa?"

"The Dauphin" Clary answered immediately.

"How so?"

Clary tried to order her thoughts, unsure of whether or not she could explain it and even then if she should. Was her father really the sort of man who would take her personal feelings into consideration? She doubted it but a little thread of hope began to unfurl its way inside her. She did like the French suit best. There, now she had admitted it to herself she could act on it.

"You have had several audiences with the French ambassador this week, more than you have had with the other envoys. You favour Lord Alexander and keep his company. And geographically speaking the advantages to that match are more immediate." _And he is the one closest to me in age, and closest to home, and France is the most similar to Idris oh please don't send me far away to a country whose customs and language I won't understand._

Valentine's only response was to nod as his smile grew. "A girl with her eyes open" he mused, only half speaking to her. "Each possibility brings its own profits Clarissa" he added at length. Then he turned away from her, back to the row of princes.

"I'll have these moved to your presence chamber" he announced, peering at the portraits with a secretive smile, as though there were some joke here that he alone knew the punchline to. It certainly set his daughter on edge again, she could practically feel the waves of foreboding tugging at her as she contemplated her father's contemplations.

"And we can dismiss the outstanding diplomatic parties. We only need these three to proceed."

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* * *

Thoughtfully, Jonathan Morgenstern tipped his weight on his elbows and pressed himself against the smooth marble balustrade. Peering down from his vantage point on the balcony he watched his little sister scurry along the gallery on the king's arm, inclining her head upwards to catch whatever it was Valentine had to say. The young prince watched the duo's progress with a peculiar sizzling in the pit of his stomach. _Meetings with Clarissa and not me Father?_ He brooded as Valentine's silver head and Clary's copper one slipped out of his peripheral vision.

What on earth could his father have to say to _her_ that was so important it had to be done in complete privacy behind closed doors?

Rattling his fingertips against the creamy stone and delving deeper into his turbulent musings Jonathan discovered he was struggling to keep his temper buried. That would never do, the king was always so critical of his rages. _Why then does it take an explosion of wrath to get your attention father? I've tried for years to be your prince, to be the son you wanted and I've failed miserably. The best reaction I could hope for was one of exasperated disappointment before being banished back to a frustrated exile._

His father had always seen discouragement as the best method of encouragement and in many cases it had indeed worked, he had certainly curbed the discontented mumblings of the commons and the well-used scaffold on the Gard's green kept the nobles reluctant to engage in any hostile action. If only the policy could have claimed the same success with regard to his son. In recent years Jonathan had decided to give up bending over backwards for the parental approval that would never come; if his father would never be impressed by his pathetic bids for a simple gesture of approval then he may as well indulge in the savage satisfaction of watching Valentine's anger at his son's inherent viciousness. If the end result was only ever going to be displeasure and condemnation he may as well be damned for being himself rather than the faint ghost of the heir his father wanted, as it was surely the more prudent course. Jonathan was nothing if not a pragmatist.

The heir his father wanted.

Valentine had always hated him and Jonathan knew that, but until recently he had lived happily in the bubble of thought that the King's personal hatred would never touch his position at this court. That had been naïve, he realised. Until a month ago he had believed that his title was unassailable, completely untouchable. He was Crown Prince of Idris by virtue of his birth and nothing and no one could ever change that, whether Valentine loved or hated him he was his one and only son and therefore would succeed him as king, as was his birth right. Father had never been one to let his loves or enemies dissuade him from the course of what he perceived to be his duty and he had gone to great lengths to impress upon Jonathan that the Morgenstern name and legacy was paramount. Therefore it was Valentine's duty to preserve and forward his line, namely by ensuring that when he was called from this world his crown rested on the brow of the only surviving male Morgenstern.

Besides, what other option did Valentine have?

Until now the only other living Morgenstern had been a long forgotten girl. Jonathan had thought of his sister over the years, and often. He had held on to those garbled recollections of a pert little freckled face demanding to go wherever he went and with the memories he had allowed himself to nurture the hope that his sister would prove to be another Morgenstern disappointment, that they would have this and much more in common. He would never admit as much out loud but he had been so sure that when his sister came to court he would at long last have someone who properly understood him, someone who would be just like him and he would no longer have to weather the storm of his father's disillusionment alone.

Again, naïve. For weeks he had felt the imposed distance between himself and the King, each time Valentine's eyes rested on him with a preoccupied glaze or he was tactfully swept out of a royal meeting he could practically feel hundreds of potently indifferent hands shoving him away from the throne and his future. _Do you really hate me so much father?_ The prince questioned to no one, leaning over the stone barrier and contemplating the ornate ceramic floor far beneath him. Then he grinned to himself, holding back a bitter chortle. _I suppose there is no limit to your hatred, not for me._ Ultimately Valentine would never be able to stop detesting the one who had taken the women he loved from him. _Yes I drove your beloved wife away. She saw me for what I was becoming and she hated and fared it enough to snatch her precious baby and flee in search of some salvation, leaving you with nothing save that painting to keep closeted to yourself._

After so many years Valentine's cold abhorrence of his son left Jonathan burning.

It seemed his father had recovered of late, having found the perfect consolation in the form of his reclaimed fifteen year old daughter. It must be thoroughly thrilling, having Jocelyn restored to him through their daughter. Thrilling enough for him to schedule unannounced meetings and sneak off to see her in secret, anyway. God knew what they had to discuss but Jonathan was willing to wager it was not the weather.

Having despaired of finding a kindred spirit in his younger sister Jonathan was now keen to see her packed off with a ring on her finger, preferably as far away as possible from their father's guilty affections. But the thought of Clary as someone's wife far away was no longer as comforting as he would have liked. The notion of her perched on a foreign throne was not exactly soothing, especially when one contemplated the nameless, faceless monarch at her side. What man with an ounce of ambition cherished a wife breathing down the neck of an unpopular heir and did not think about giving his beloved bride an encouraging shove forward to claim him another crown? Automatically Jonathan's hand flew to his waist and gripped the hilt of his blade. In that unhappy turn of events he would be reliant on Idrisian reluctance to be governed by a foreign power to lend support to his own cause.

Yet with all things considered Valentine was hardly rushing to get his daughter to the altar. Jonathan had lain awake for many nights trying to decipher what it was about all these marriage negotiations exactly that made his hair stand on end and sent his gut twisting. Something wasn't right here, he could sense it.

Adding to these worries was the reappearance of Jace Herondale in Alicante. Now the previously undisputed succession of Jonathan Morgenstern was shadowed by the return of both Valentine's adored daughter and his preferred son. The observation set hot, stinging envy writhing through Jonathan's system and his temples pounding in the quiet of the empty gallery.

No one drifts out of relative obscurity at twenty one to take the frontline on negotiating a royal marriage, even if they were technically a native. Suspicion had been forefront in his mind since he'd first glimpsed Herondale's head bent over Clarissa's petite hand for the necessary kiss. And he had been right, obviously smoke equalled fire, though today's discovery had given him absolutely no satisfaction. The prince had decided to seize Valentine's discreet meeting with his daughter to deploy his own investigation in the King's abandoned rooms. During his search through some papers on Valentine's desk he had found exactly the sort of thing he had been looking for and prayed he would never find. A letter from France, marking a willingness to adhere to the Idrisian King's wishes that were so explicitly clear: Jace Herondale, ambassador in Idris by special request. Jonathan clenched the fist that wasn't resting on the harsh metal of his knife. What the devil was his father playing at? And why in hell did it all leave him floundering in dread?

It doesn't matter, Jonathan insisted to himself. They couldn't take anything from him without a fight.

The only reason he could command wealth and live a life of pleasure, the only reason he could command the company of dozens of well bred and rich friends was his royal inheritance. It would all be worth it then, his mother's absence and father's hatred he could excuse and he could bear if it meant that in the end he had some great destiny; that he would rule. Without the crown he would have no followers, no admiration, no future. For the boy so completely alone in the world and loathed by all those who ought to love him the promise that he would be a king was all he had in the world. And he would fight for it.

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* * *

 ** _Canal Street, Alicante, May 1536_**

Alec wasn't sure what it was he had been expecting, other than it had not been this.

The name Magnus Bane and the reputation of the person who was said to be the richest man in Alicante had somehow prompted Alec's mind to conjure the image of an aged, grey bearded and stern faced old man who had committed his life to making a fortune and was determined to keep it all in his miserly twilight years. That was the sort of self-made man he was accustomed to. So to find his barge bobbing and scraping to a halt outside a magnificent townhouse and struggling to find a place on the crammed waterfront to dock was, to put it mildly, a surprise. On closer inspection it seemed that every window in the house was illuminated and each pane tossed out coins of glimmering, dancing light on the surface of the trembling inky water. From the open doors a raucous cacophony of laughter and shrieks echoed into the stars, a racket abundant in the kind of hedonistic mirth that only the very wealthy can afford.

"Right Midas this one" the boatman muttered himself as he worked furiously on the ropes. All of Alec longed to order the barge to turn around and take him back to where the horses waited and then to gallop back to the court at Broceland and forget the whole endeavour. He dared not. Instead he pressed his right hand to his belt, where the letter and package from His Majesty sojourned in his purse.

In his present state of mind there were two kinds of scenario he wanted to avoid. The first, and one that had always been the case was any kind of social gathering. With his awkward fumbling phrases and perpetually surly face Alec knew for a fact he was never to be the life and soul of any party and had long ago committed himself to sticking by Jace's popular shoulder and letting him exude enough charisma for both of them. Generally he clung to the outlined etiquette and kept his interactions strictly, he was a brutally honest and shy courtier. Irony was not good to him.

Secondly, given his current and secret dilemma the last thing he wanted to deal with was anyone as disgustingly wealthy as Magnus Bane and this party guests. Technically he supposed he could come back later when the place wasn't crowded with drunken revellers, but it had taken a great deal of self-bullying for him to summon the will to come here at all tonight, moreover, he was on a time sensitive mission: the king had instructed him to re-join the court in a matter of days and he had to factor in travel time, not to mention he dreaded to think what sort of trouble Isabelle and Jace could get up to in his absence. The sooner he got this little mission over and done with the better.

Squaring his shoulders brusquely Alec paid the ferryman and stepped off the boat. He marched up to the nearest door trying to make himself look as purposeful as possible and brought his knuckles firmly to the wooden frame, which to his utter astonishment veered open upon the contact. Apprehension rising, Alec nudged his way around the open thoroughfare and encountered who he supposed to be the doorman, slumped against the wall and attentively drunk with a wineskin drooping in his hand and leaking pattering, garnet like drops onto the floor. The poor fellow slurred what could have been a greeting, but Alec did not linger to converse, pushing his way further into the house before he lost his nerve altogether.

It seemed the entire house had been constructed to mock him, everywhere he turned affluence struck him; his feet encountered exotic looking rugs, the walls were panelled with glossy wood and gaudy plaster and at one point he turned a corner and found himself face to face with a painting he could have sworn was a da Vinci. Each table was piled with pewter plates and every candelabra his eyes touched upon was towered with beaming candles, the base of every one of which was draped with jewels (real jewels upon closer inspection) pearls, diamonds, emeralds, rubies and gold and gold and _gold._

Not that the ostentation of Bane's glorious hacienda could have known the dire state of the Lightwood family finances, but it nonetheless felt a personal slight that anyone could go so out of their way to prove that they virtually breathed wealth. Stomach rolling alongside the wild climbing music Alec struggled through the tide of eager guests and forced himself not to gape like some peasant boy encountering money for the first time.

Although the life of a peasant boy may well be his future.

 _Stop that_ he chastised himself in the midst of untangling his body from a very determined and very drunk young women who clung to his sleeves and spilled her drink all over him. All could still be well, so far his parents had managed to conceal the growing canker of their poverty. But the facts remained; his mother's inheritance was running out while his father's debts to the king of Idris were growing, and with his wife no longer speaking to him Robert could not hope for her intervention with her native monarch. The Lightwoods were dangerously close to desperation and the last thing they needed was Valentine Morgenstern calling in his loans.

Hence Alec had been informed of their plight and told that he needed to accompany Jace to Idris and curry the favour of not only its King but also the favour of the King of France, by contributing to the arrangement of a good match for his eldest son. More often than not, that kind of royal goodwill was followed by advancement and with advancement came lands and much needed money.

If only Alec could confide in someone, to tell his sister why it was so important she make a respectable marriage to a wealthy husband and soon, or to enlighten Jace as to why he was adding to the pressure on him to bring the desired royal wedding about. No, his mother had been most clear: the easiest and most effective way of keeping up the pretence that all was well was if the rest of the family genuinely believed all was well. So they would play pretend until their act became a reality.

That didn't stop Alec's horrified imaginings of his sister in rough, homespun brown garb with the screeching child of a farm labourer on her hip and glaring at him through accusatory tears, "The most beautiful girl in France, wasted. This is all your fault!" Or his sweet little brother Max crouching in a ditch, scraping through the soil and hedgerows for nuts and berries to fill an empty stomach, "I want to go home Alec" he would cry, "Why couldn't you take us all home?"

He needed to find Magnus Bane and get out of here quickly, before he lost all integrity and started to smash up the exquisite furniture or cram his purse full of the scattered jewels and bolt for the exit.

Finally cornering a man with a deplorably crooked cap who seemed to be the closest Alec would get to a sober person on the premises, the young lord gave him a firm shake raising his voice above the clattering and cackling of the senseless celebrations. "I'm here on the king's business!" he declared, waving the royal seal on the letter before his acquaintance's alcohol clouded eyes, " I'm looking for Magnus Bane."

"Over there then," the fellow gestured with a tremoring hand, "Don't expect him to be receptive, he won't want to talk business mid-party."

"He'll want to talk business" Alec insisted gruffly. He strongly suspected a man with Bane's economic success had a nose for money and everything about Valentine's assignment smelled of payment. Shouldering his way back into the fray Alec crossed the room to where he had been directed only stopped dead in his tracks when he finally got a glimpse of the mythical Magnus Bane.

From all that he had heard in the tendrils of gossip surrounding Magnus Bane he had dismissed over a half of it as pure fantasy. He seemed to have made his fortune through a number of worthy investments, trading in spices, wool, strawberries, silk and much more. The eclectic mix of merchant connections with a number of indistinct dealings with court nobility had evidently paid off, leaving him with many wealthy patrons.

Paid being the operative. Magnus' sudden soar to money and influence had captured the imagination of Alicante's population, Alec had heard of Bane's links with several murders, dozens of spells and magic and many illicit and financially beneficial affairs. Despite all of that the man now lounging in front of Alec was both extremely ordinary and extraordinary in equal measures.

Ordinary because he did not seem particularly remarkable, he could even be considered exceptionally normal; long limbed, dark haired and tanned, there was nothing about his basic appearance that suggested this was the man who had so many tongues wagging on the city streets.

Then again, extraordinary because he was a man that could not have been more than halfway through his second decade and was dressed in an extremely bold shade of pink, lengthy limbs draped languidly across the armrests of an ornate chair while long, tapering fingers glittering with coloured rings played with a chain of opals and gold around his neck. Not to mention that he appeared to be in the middle of an intense struggle to dislodge the beautiful young women resting in his lap who was not wearing anything other than a pale corset and underskirt, smooth white shoulders only coated by her light blonde ringlets.

"Magnus Bane?" Alec questioned, abruptly self-conscious that his dull black attire stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the guests and averting his mortified eyes from the lady's state of undress.

"Depends on who's asking," the host answered in perfect French with the edge of an accent Alec could not place.

"The King of Idris," Alec tried to declare confidently.

A single dark brow rose and a gold and green flecked eye glittered and the dancing hazel gaze fixed on him sent a peculiar fizzing through Alec's veins. "Not unless he has drastically changed his appearance in the last year."

"Er- no." Alec blundered, "I- you- we- no." He forced some air into his lungs and tried again. "I'm the King's _representative._ "

Magnus Bane smiled in response, showcasing a set of unusually gleaming white teeth, though there was no trace of mockery in the grin. "I know that. I also know that I am not in the habit of leaving a perfectly good party to talk about work. They say mixing business and pleasure is a grave mistake." He waved away Alec's protestations before he could voice them, "Then again I am helpless against the allure of a grave mistake. And for those blue eyes I'm more than willing to make time."

Alec's breath caught in his throat and heat pooled in his cheeks. Thankfully Bane did not seem to expect a response. Instead he nudged the girl in his lap, "Shoo Camille. I have work to do and you are making the king's man uncomfortable. Besides, no one here is currently interested in what you have to showcase."

The blonde made no move at all, "You'll regret this later Magnus" she claimed in an amorous voice, trailing her arm down his.

"Later is later. I'll deal with it then. I daresay you will find another victim for your attentions somewhere here." Camille rose from her perch with a surprising amount of grace considering she was half naked and pirouetted to face Magnus once again, while Alec longed for the sweet embrace of death upon the very personal conversation the couple continued to have in front of him. "You cannot expect me to come running back next time you find yourself in an empty bedchamber if you send me away now."

"I know, it is just that I no longer care. Things have been over between us for a very long time and we both know it. I loved you a great deal and you did not love me at all. That is a poor recipe for any relationship. Fortunately, it's all so far in the past that even whatever Valentine wants is more attractive than you. I must confess the lack of decorum" he cast an unimpressed glance up and down her too-revealed figure "does not suit you." Somehow that was enough for the woman, spinning on her heel once again and gliding off after a single predatory assessment of Alec, probably in search of what Magnus had aptly termed another victim.

Once she was gone Alec struggled to recover from the mortification of what he had just witnessed and fought against making eye contact with Magnus, painfully aware of how far he had infringed upon the man's privacy. "Fear not. Lady Belcourt thrives on the drama of it all and if we are to be honest I am not averse to the attention either. Her only regret from tonight will have been that she did not get a larger audience for her latest grand exit from my life. Hopefully this performance will have appeased her enough to keep her away for another five years. One never knows with her. It truly is exhausting, all of this breaking things off and never mending anything."

" _Lady_ Belcourt?" The woman could not be further from a lady! And Alec had no recollection of having encountered her at court.

"Not in the sense you are used to."

Alec refrained from mentioning he was not used to the company of any lady, nor did he ever expect he would be. He didn't know what to say beyond that which would be grossly inappropriate (more so than parading around in one's undergarments) and also had the possibility to stir up a great deal of trouble, so he retreated back to his duty and handed the letter and package over. "From the King. I believe it is some kind of payment?" Bane barely glanced past the wrapping before nodding to himself and turning to the letter, "and my next charge." Then he tossed them both to one side and fixed his attention back on Alec, "If I might ask the name of the messenger? Charming as Blue Eyes is it is a tad too casual for someone I do not have the honour of knowing."

"It may not be worth knowing" Alec said with a nervous laugh, completely unaccustomed as he was to this sort of attention from any boy, especially one as good looking as Magnus Bane, "I am, as you say, just the messenger. But Alexander Lightwood. Alec."

"Well then Alec. You can tell whoever it is that is returning to His Majesty that he will have all he asks for, as ever. And of course my southern abode is at his disposal, I will leave tomorrow and ride there in order to make the necessary preparations for his stay."

"You're heading south? To join the court?"

"You didn't read the letter?" Magnus sounded genuinely surprised.

"Of course not. It was addressed to you!"

"There are very few people that would have stopped. My God, an courtier with a sense of honour, who would have guessed?"

Alec fidgeted slightly, "I only meant that if you are going to join the court's progress then perhaps we could travel together? I am going that way too, _I_ am the person riding south. I'll understand if you do not want to-if there are other…"

Magnus smiled at Alec as though his stammering and embarrassing attempts to gain his company were somehow endearing.

"Alexander I would be honoured."

Alec spared a moment to wonder how he was supposed to keep up an entire journey of conversation when simple sentences confounded him, but then some words from earlier came floating back: _Later is later. I'll deal with it then._ At this very moment he was so sick of fretting about every potential consequence, for once he was determined to try living in the moment.

-000000000000000-

* * *

 **A/N: Ooooooh the seeds of Malec are sown! If only Simon could have the same kind of luck in his relationships, though I must admit his methods of flirtation and mine are much the same. I did say before that the implications of his faith would be addressed in this fic and they will be, but in a later chapter. As for Jonathan, I felt the need arise to try and humanise him slightly which hopefully I have achieved. Everyone has daddy issues here. Everyone.**


	9. Two Birds One Stone

**A/N: Ample warning, excuse my language but this is about the part where everything goes to shit.**

 _-0000000000000-_

* * *

 _Chapter 8:Two Birds, One Stone._

 ** _Chatton House, Broceland, June 1536_**

Walking through these colourfully opulent rooms and hallways it was not hard to see why this house had been the seat of power for the Dukes of Broceland. Clearly even after the first Morgenstern king, the current King's grandfather Jonathan VII, had invaded Idris and seized its throne the remnants of the deposed Herondale family had happily departed their capital with a Dukedom and continued to live like princes in their palatial home here at Broceland. A king's ransom had been paid to dissuade any of the royal cousins from making a bid for actual kingship, money Jace's ancestors had happily gobbled up like greedy fish, mouths constantly gaping open in the hope of more. Honestly, he could hardly blame them, what manner of man refuses the chance to enjoy the lifestyle of a king without having to shoulder any of the subsequent responsibilities? The blend of archaic luxury in huge carved fireplaces and bare stone walls in the older parts of the building with more modern decorations in patterned rugs, panelled walls, and pillars shrouded in gleaming gold leaf latticework made Chatton House every inch the palace.

If only it weren't so filled with ghosts.

Despite all of the tasteful comfort Jace had only managed a handful of restful nights since they had arrived, his restfulness only accentuated by an especially troubling conversation with the house's present resident Lord John Carstairs, the Earl of Chene. They had been wandering the guardens after one of the king's meetings where Jace had politely stopped to admire the craftsmanship of the nymphs and other creatures carved straight out of myth and into the huge stone fountain at the front of the house, when he had made the mistake of broaching the topic of the Carstairs' residence here. "We are the guardians of Chatton House" the Earl had corrected him with a smile "we do not live here. There is a perfectly good house at Hending for my family, the Carstairs family have always lived there, you see. True, we keep this house and my wife oversaw the recent refurbishments but we have never stayed here unless as a part of the court. To do otherwise- it would not feel right, nor honourable"

"Naturally, it is a royal palace." Jace had agreed quickly, sure that comment would close the conversation.

"It is more than that. It was Herondale house and no Carstairs would pretend entitlement to what belonged to a Herondale. For us, to live here- it would be akin to walking in a dead man's shoes."

Jace battled with his shock and finally managed a laugh. Better he made out Lord John's words were ludicrous, if he exhibited any approval he would have condoned a statement that was dangerously close to treason. Besides, while treason was the ostracising brand on his forehead and the nightmare monster breathing down his neck he needed to find the dark humour in it all or he'd go to pieces, "Surely a wise decision, since it is filled with dead men. Perhaps Chatton House is haunted. Most things belonging to the Herondales are; not only did they lose the crown but then they lost their heads to put the crown on. Divine will cannot get any clearer than that, King Valentine is better suited to be its master. "

Lord John's expression had held some kind of disappointment then, but what was Jace supposed to say? _An excellent idea sir, let us seize the house and then launch a full scale rebellion! For Herondale, the rightful King, hurrah!_ The thought alone was deadly.

Even now, forcing himself to stride confidently to the Princess' apartments he suspected he wasn't seeing what people expected him to when he looked around the timeless grandeur of the palace. He did not see what he had lost and he did not see what he hoped to gain; he merely saw what he had been running away from for the past eleven years and evidently not fast enough.

Nodding to the guards at the doors he entered into utter chaos. There were women flapping about everywhere, carting dresses and jewels and furniture about and trying to stuff too many things into their trunks. One of them even flew past dragging a clearly reluctant lap dog on a gilded lead. Jace hoped she stopped short of trying to squash it into her trunk as well. Somehow in the midst of all the shrieking and arguing and fighting with lids and locks the Princess herself seemed completely calm, perched on a trunk that had been successfully shut and completely engrossed in the battered book in her lap. Jace approached, knowing better than to wait for a herald and cleared his throat before her. It happened to take another cleared throat and then a lengthy wait during which the ambassador's limited patience was sorely tested before a pair of green eyes were raised to his.

"Excellence I have it on good authority there is no room for any of your own gowns amongst my belongings." Jace rolled his eyes before he could stop himself. Honestly, the damn women sapped away more and more of his professionalism every day. He needed to reclaim it and learn how to retain it around her if they were to pull this off.

"What are you reading?" She flipped over the book to allow him a look at the worn title page of Mallory's _Morte d'Arthur._

"Ah, you seek courtly love, chivalry and romance?"

"One must find it somewhere."

"Your own courtly experiences are not what you expected, then?" Jace grinned.

"On the contrary Monsieur Herondale, they have been exactly what I expected," she peered up at sagely before snapping the book shut. "Anyway, I fail to see how the events at Camelot embody the spirts of either chivalry or courtly love. A queen unfaithful with her husband's most trusted knight? How romantic. Where is the true love supposed to be anyway? Guinevere and Arthur? Guinevere and Lancelot?"

"Surely even Guinevere does not know the answer to that."

The comment made the princess laugh, bright little head dropping forward with mirth. Jace took a hasty step back and halted the spread of an accompanying smile of his own. He wasn't supposed to enjoy the sound of her laugh.

At last the merriment subsided and she laid the beloved copy on the trunk beside her, folding her hands over her stomacher and made a show of appearing queenly. Jace had to stop the progress of another smile.

"So then, Your Excellence. I doubt you've come here to discuss the work of Thomas Mallory. You got my message?"

"Yes" Jace confirmed, bemused. He prided himself on not being easily shocked but being cornered by Isabelle first thing in the morning and told that the princess wanted to see him as soon as possible was unexpected. Not the king, the princess.

"Forgive me the makeshift summons, I couldn't find an official messenger to spare" she flashed him another proudly impish smile. Both of them new all too well the last thing the princess was permitted to do was hold audiences, especially not with foreign envoys. "But I doubt there will be a better time," she gestured to the surrounding tumult of bickering and cramming, "This way I doubt we'll be overheard, everyone is far too preoccupied to even realise you are here." She sounded far too pleased with herself for Jace's peace of mind.

"You're interfering," he informed her, "How unacceptable."

"He says having responded. I must also note that you are still standing here."

"Curiosity is an exquisite downfall."

The young princess tucked a strand behind her ear and nudged the curved headdress in the process. She must still be adjusting to the business of jewel studded hoods. Clary struggled to hide a wince of pain and rolled her shoulders back, chin lifted. "I have a proposal with regards to your own proposal, or rather that of your master." Jace raised an eyebrow, inviting an elaboration. "I am seeking an alliance, and where better to look for someone to facilitate what I want than where there is mutual benefit?" Now all traces of amusement were gone and the ambassador was drawn in earnest to whatever schemes the girl had hatched. He was on a never-ending journey of discovering what exactly lay underneath those pretty russet curls, he feared he'd never complete the voyage to his satisfaction.

"What I am about to say must not go to your head, Herondale, take it from me that is quite big enough and you are not solely responsible for my opinions."

"I am listening meekly Your Highness."

"I favour the Duke of Brittany. Now I am not stupid enough to presume that what I think or what I want in all these negotiations matter, but I fail to see my insignificance as a suitable reason to exclude myself from the proceedings entirely. So I thought I would turn to you, the person who is King Francois' voice in all of this and has, besides myself, the most to lose or gain from this marriage." She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "Just think, _Sir_ Jace, a nice chateau in Normandy, coveted rooms at court…."

"Promising." Jace conceded, his inner haggler taking the reins, "But not convincing."

The princess of Idris straightened up and appraised him. "Mayhap Lord Herondale then. And a chateau in Brittany to accompany the one in Normandy."

"And a town house in Paris to accompany my new coveted rooms at court."

"You know I don't have to agree to any of this. You'll make it your business to bring about the Dauphin's success with or without a Parisian townhouse."

"Well you don't have to buy my willingness to promote the French cause to your father, true. That is merely the immediate future, what happens once we are successful you are wed and can call yourself Dauphine? You will find yourself at a foreign court where everyone is so very suspicious of your accent and the different way you dress and eat. I could well be a lone voice of support for you then, Princess, and the closest thing to a friend you have. By then you may find yourself wishing I had a lordship as the higher I am in the pecking order the more my opinion matters, and therefore the more useful I am to you. And as Your Highness has agreed I am quite capable of bringing this about by myself and I have the friendship of the Dauphin already and with it the likelihood of advancement, so why would I require your assistance?"

Clarissa Morgenstern nodded, "True, but your success is far from assured. I could help with that. The more lords in that council chamber sympathetic to your cause the better."

"You don't control a single lord," he deadpanned.

"No but I do influence their wives, their daughters," she sent her eyes gliding around the room to punctuate her statement. "Moreover you make the fatal male mistake, never underestimate the power a woman can have. Yes the Dauphin will advance you but how far? He might give his good friend a knighthood but a bride whispering in his ear could guarantee his good friend a chateau. Or several."

"And a townhouse," Jace insisted instantly.

His new ally lifted the corners of her mouth in a placating smile, "Perhaps upon the coronation of a new queen."

Jace nodded, grinning at the girl dictating orders and playing princes from her perch on a trunk of dresses. "You may enlist my help."

"We may enlist one another's help." Clary clarified briskly, jumping to her feet. "Now if you'll excuse me I have to go ensure my Cicero is not abused by this manhandling."

"Cicero?" His stunned question exploded as he whirled to face the dainty little girl shouldering past him, "How the devil do you go from Camelot to Cicero?!"

Clary beamed at him, "You didn't imagine my thoughts were entirely devoted to knights in shining armour and damsels in distress did you?"

"No. Clearly you are a clever girl" the ambassador muttered to himself at the sight of her fleeing to the defence of her Latin, shaking his head and making good his escape before Kaelie could corner him. His interest in the saucy blonde with her coy smiles and increasingly shameless vies for his attention was rapidly waning. All attempts to let her down gently thus far had been hastily surrendered in the face of her insistence, but Jace knew that sooner rather than later he would have to properly break things off between them. What he had seen as a harmless flirtation she had been viewing as a serious courtship, not the formula for true love after all. Too late, he realised that she had caught sight of him and was dumping what seemed like a jewellery box on a nearby stool and was starting to hurry towards him. Shrugging briskly against his rising panic, Jace turned on his heels and all but bolted for the door.

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

"Perhaps upon the coronation of a new queen? Those are the exact words that were spoken by my sister to Jonathan Herondale?"

Aline Penhallow nodded, fidgeting on the spot before her Crown Prince. Even here, in the quiet corners of darkened hallways one had to be careful what one said and to whom, as this girl well knew. The mixture of the cool shadowed air and tension had her trembling faintly and the fair skin of her chest raised in gooseflesh. "Yes, Highness. But there was a lengthy conversation, that was just the part I heard."

Jonathan Morgenstern was already striding away, "Believe me, my lady, you heard enough," he threw over his shoulder, beckoning impatiently for Sebastian Verlac to leave his cousin's shoulder. Sebastian hurried to Jonathan's side the feather in his cap bobbing along with his hasty movements, "I told you what she heard was useful!"

"The usefulness will depend on what we do about it, naturally."

Verlac waited, dark eyes fixed on the prince's eagerly, "So what are we going to do about it?" Jonathan and his companion marched out into the courtyard where their mounts waited, lowering the brim of his hat against the patches of sunlight breaking through the clouds. There was the unmistakable heaviness in the air and trace of rain in the wind that warned of a coming storm though at the moment the weather was fair. Jonathan paused by the side of his great bay, mind whirling. This had to be done quickly and effectively, he doubted he'd get a second chance with his father. He had two birds to strike and only one stone to hand, the field would have to be cleared in one fell swoop and he was beginning to see a way in which it could.

 _Carpe Diem_ as his old tutor Master Starkweather was fond of muttering as he shuffled about in dusty robes, looking incapable of seizing anything. Appearances could be deceptive, for all his apparent harmlessness he was possibly the greatest mind in the kingdom and so Valentine had gone to great lengths to get the man firmly in his pocket. Starkweather, now advanced to the post of Lord Chancellor was the ideal man for the job, with all the genius to put the King's ideas promptly into action and none of the integrity to voice any complaints or exhibit disobedience. That considered, Jonathan should really have known better than to take his sister at face value. The supposedly innocent and fragile maid hid her scheming and ambition well. Perhaps his sibling was not unlike him after all.

"My father has already departed, yes?" he demanded of the groom still clutching his horse's reins and looking a touch nauseous.

"Yes, Highness," he yelped in response.

Jonathan pushed his foot onto the stirrup and swung himself onto the horse's back with practiced ease and gestured to Verlac, "You are going to find my sister and introduce yourself as her escort for the journey south. Then you will locate and send the French ambassador to me. We are going to divert our course slightly, to show my little sister the scenic route. I do think she's missing out, fond as she is of shortcuts. Clarissa ought to be in the care her brother anyway, one must be careful on the roads in these turbulent days."

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

 ** _Oldcastle, Broceland Forest, June 1536_**

Hours later the stench of the soldiers still hung in the air. The unmistakable reek of trailing smoke, churned earth and cluttering dust was far from unfamiliar to seven year old Tom, who had been dreading the visits for all of his short life.

There were still those who remembered a time when life had not been snatches of feeble peace between the army's calls, like Old Tom, his grandfather and namesake, who was constantly muttering about how 'it didn't use'ta be like this' but Mam was forever shushing him, and telling her youngest son she'd smack the living daylights outta him if he repeated so much as a word of the old man's grumblings. In his seven years times had always been hard, but it had gotten worse since Dad had gone off in search of better work in the city and never come back.

Mam had tried to keep things going as best she had but she couldn't work the fields by herself and none of the boys were old enough to help her, so they'd been forced to let the land go and move into Old Tom's crumbling cottage. Mam had even swallowed her pride and gone knocking at the shut door of the Church, knowing that occasionally during the worst days they could be persuaded to give some relief. Unfortunately not even Tom's sallow, grimy face and his mother's pleas had been enough to prompt anything beyond the excuse that "times are hard missus".

Times were always hard. Now crouched as they were in the woodsmoke filled gloom of the small cottage the family could only wait, foxes in the surrounded den, for the worst of it to pass. The soldiers were long gone, but the dust stirred up in their wake showed no sign of settling. Mam poked the flames in the grate, trying to warm the usual gruel over them and making no attempts to quell Old Tom's mutterings. "They should'na come! They have us half dead as it is, they start coming during the hungry months and soon they'll have no one to beat the taxes outta'!" His words drew another sob from Tom's sister, Sybilla who huddled in the corner tearfully with her baby pressed to her empty breast, casting another terrified glance at her husband beside her who was pressing damp rags on his bleeding and swollen limbs. This visit had taken the last of what they had. By winter there would be another family crammed in the hovel.

The hungry months as they were known spanned the weeks between the crops of the last harvest rotting or running out and the beginning of the new one; they were the worst days of any year. Right now, Tom's hollow belly never stopped aching and what little flesh his limbs had gained last year had long been stripped away. The soldier's knew that, the King knew that and as such they should have known there was never any point in scouting out grain or money from the people in these months. Even if they did have some, they would be needing it now most of all.

"Aye, but they be needin' a dowry. To hell with us, the Princess needs a pretty wedding dress." Sybilla's man croaked angrily, "the courtship of the likes of Kings and Emperors is a costly business y'see. Our lovely Clarissa won't be leaving with anything less than the fortune her new husband demands."

"They can't take from people what they don't _have_!" Tom started at the unprecedented savagery in his mother's tone. She never raised her voice or complained no matter how bad things got. Until now it seemed.

"And I hear they tried to burn mill! Seems those who won't pay their dues have to pay in other ways. Businesses that won't contribute enough soon find themselves out of business." Grandpa was far from doting, whatever Mam might say.

"Things will get good again when Dad comes back," Tom piped up in an attempt to console his poor Mam.

"Your Dad isn't coming back Tom," his mother told him bluntly, slapping her spoon against the side of the worn pot, "And even if he did we couldn't feed him."

Tom stiffened and his grandpa prattled on. "But then what can you expect other than greed from a _usurper_!" A week ago those words, had Old Tom dared to speak them, would have been greeted by a horrified shushing. Today the silence that followed the outburst was one of grim agreement and in the shadows cast by slumping walls and a patchy roof all pairs of eyes glittered with pure fury.

That was the danger of leaving people with nothing left to lose.

Last winter Tom had lost his sister Lottie, he glanced around at his starving family, his weak siblings and the limp nephew Sybilla so desperately clutched and wondered which of them would survive this one, if any at all, for the sake of Clarissa Morgenstern.

The frantic beat of running feet outside broke the spell. Instantly Mam seized up the poker and Old Tom struggled to his unsteady feet, the younger Tom diving behind him in fear. Then the battered door creaked open to reveal their neighbour Henry peering inside and breathing hard. "Riders!" He panted out rapidly, "To the North."

"Dear God!" Sybbie whimpered, "Not again!"

"No! Not the soldiers. Come to the town quick! It's _her_. The princess."

For the longest time no one spoke, the quiet only pierced by Henry's hard breathing and the faintest whimper from the baby. The hatred surging within the room pounded in even Tom's young, innocent body. Hours after her men tried to scorch the town she thought she could parade through and showcase the pretty jewels and gowns Valentine's subjects were starving for? Without consequences? Wherever did she find the gall? He supposed it didn't matter, given the atmosphere of the cramped room Tom doubted she find that kind of audacity again.

"The bitch of Alicante," Sybilla's husband snarled with utter loathing from the floor, forcing his battered limbs to haul him upright.

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

Today seemed to be the day for Morgenstern sibling surprises. Watching Jonathan warily from the corner of his eye Jace adjusted his weight in the saddle so that his elbow bumped against the hilt at his waist in what he hoped was an imperceptible movement. Being this close to Jonathan would have been a frustrating and uncomfortable experience in any circumstance, but when the Prince was treating him _nicely_ Jace just about managed to surface from his astonishment enough to want a sharp blade in his hands. Unfortunately he felt that riding alongside the heir to the throne with bared steel was at best impolite and at worst illegal. Considering the King's unyielding determination to maintain the superiority of his family and his consequent desire to highlight the supremacy of his children of late Jace suspected that the latter of his assumptions was probably true; therefore his hands would not move from the reins however much they wanted to.

Ever since they had set out from Chatton House earlier in the afternoon Jace had felt niggling unease like a fish hook in his gut and the bad feeling alone was enough for him to well and truly put his guard up. Having been born with the surname that left the executioner's axe hovering over his head at all times while simultaneously being left as his own primary protector in the absence of parents or kin, Jace had long ago learnt to trust his own instincts.

Oblivious to his companion's suspicious discomfort Jonathan continued to chatter on about the various tutors and servants they'd had as children. "Do you remember that ass, was his name Midwinter? He used to try to teach arithmetic."

"No. He never taught me." Jace replied tightly. It was true, as the two boys had gotten older their rivalry had fiercely intensified. Nips in the nursery had turned into broken bones in the weapons yard and after Jonathan had broken Jace's wrist for the second time during a sparring session when they were eight the King had decreed that they were no longer to share any lessons. The separation had been a gradual process, initially the two of them had shared governesses and nurses, rather because Jace had never been appointed one of his own instead the care of him had been left to a young nursery maid who would eventually become Clarissa's nurse. Then they had shared Hodge Starkweather as their tutor until it became clear that despite the fact Jonathan was slightly older Jace was infuriatingly capable of keeping up with him and may even prove to be the more diligent student.

Upon reflection that was because he had always been alienated from the group of other young noblemen in the making who had been selected to be the prince's companions. In lieu of friends, which he had no desire to make given the only apparent options were the pompous, brash and immature lordlings that hung on Jonathan's every word, he had taken to his books. Jonathan's games had always been rough and oftentimes borderline sadistic given the things he could bully his adoring friends into doing, besides by that time the alternative of little Clary was already walking and talking, babbling along beside the two older boys who fascinated her. The difference being that while Jonathan had been quick to brush off his embarrassing and 'idiotic' clinging little sister Jace had significantly more patience for her, and she had adored him for it.

For Jace the mixture of discovering he was far from averse to the notion of being the princess' first idol and also recognising that anyone else the prince disliked was a good candidate for friendship had led to his welcoming of Clary's attentions. Perhaps friend was too far, in those days the age difference between the little girl and himself had allowed him to make her more his minion. Oh yes, Jonathan Morgenstern had from the earliest days been surrounded by a crowd of adoring young men who would grow up to be the most powerful men in the land while Jonathan Herondale had a single supporter: a five year old girl.

Start as you mean to go on.

He still considered Alec to be the first friend he'd ever had. Encountering another boy close to his age who had never met Jonathan Morgenstern upon arrival at twelve in Adamant had been a most heartening experience. Without the Crown Prince around to ensure he was only regarded as the court pariah Jace had actually managed to secure himself a friend, and as time progressed to an extent Isabelle had managed to replace little Clary, although being slightly older and sharp tongued even then she had never matched the previous standard of crony. Little Max would prove a far better worshipper as the years went by.

The most poignant part of having this relationship with the Lightwood children had been that for the first time in his life Jace had gained something by himself, and something that was all his. Finally he had something and someone in his life that could not be taken away from him in a heartbeat on a whim of Valentine's.

Mayhap it had left him complacent. He was not blind, he saw the way Jonathan looked at Isabelle, as though she were a chunk of meat he wanted to devour, nor was he oblivious to how often Alec had been at the prince's shoulder in the days before his departure and of course he was currently off on a mission of the King's. He had been naïve to think there was anything he could gain in his life that Valentine couldn't take.

At his final snapped comment Jonathan had given up any attempts at conversation and instead had urged his mount in a clipped trot onto a side road. Jace turned Wayfarer to follow without a word. In a corner of his brain he wondered if Jonathan's separating the two of them from the rest of the court was stage one of his cunning scheme to assassinate Jace. Although killing someone out of sheer dislike and a history of childhood quarrels was a real blow below the belt, even for Morgenstern. Besides, considering the rugged grey of the sky and the warning restless rumble of thunder far off in the distance perhaps the leafy shelter of the alternative route was simply an attempt to avoid the coming rain. The prince was sporting a rather magnificent hat, it would be a shame to see it ruined.

Jace loosened the muscles of his left shoulder and stretched the fingers on his dominant hand as subtly as possible, even if this was a sinister plot and it came to a fight he fancied his chances; thinking back on the vicious blows exchanged in their swordplay practice he concluded that he had been a match for Jonathan then and was surely a match for him now. Distancing themselves from the rest of the lords could further work in Jace's favour, one on one were odds he could deal with.

Eventually the path widened onto a hill which once mounted provided an impressive view of the town beneath. Oldcastle as it was called, the largest town in the area and named for the stone ruins of the ancient castle located just a few miles away. Today the town was just a cluster of wooden buildings surrounding a squat stone chapel. Not far from where the two boys had halted the river Durre cascaded past the form of what could well have been a flour mill, currently cloaked in billows of black smoke.

"What happened there?" Jace demanded.

Jonathan ignored him, "Do you know why you are here Herondale? In Idris, that is." All traces of the previously affable companion were gone.

"Surely you have some idea of what my ambassadorial duties entail, my lord?"

Morgenstern laughed, white teeth bared in what became more a gesture of hostility than amusement. "Then let us try another question shall we? This one I'm sure you can answer adequately. Who stands to inherit the throne after my sister, in the absence of an heir from either of us? Suppose what happens if the two of us die today."

Jace's stomach jolted. Had he really been brought all the way up here to have his family disgrace rubbed in his face once again? "I suppose then it would pass to the last of the old dynasty bloodline. The Blackthorns?" He had never given much thought to his other distant cousins. The Blackthorn family were the only remaining line of royal Herondale blood besides Jace himself thanks to a Herondale princess having married into the family a century ago. Luckily for them, they were far enough removed from the House of Herondale not to have been troubled by the Morgenstern rise; they'd had the good grace to retire to their country manor near Lake Lyn decades ago and unlike the remaining Herondales had never caused the new reigning family any bother. "No Blackthorn has sat on the throne of Idris and none ever will," He pointed out to Jonathan frankly _. The only cause your father could have for complaint is that Andrew Blackthorn has plenty of sons where he does not._

"Not the Blackthorns," Jonathan returned equally brusquely, "you."

Every muscle in Jace's body seized up as though he had been flung in an icy river and then just as quickly it felt like he had been bathed in fire. "Me?" His own voice echoed in his ears, heart pounding in his chest like a hammer at an anvil. "That cannot be Your Highness. When my father died-"

"When the axe fell you forfeited your lands and title, not your claim. The charge of treason gave the crown the right to absorb your title and take away your duchy but not your name and not your bloodline. No one can take away the blood that flows in your veins. King's blood."

He graciously gave Jace a moment to recover, who could well have looked ridiculous staring back at the prince in shock and dread. "So let me ask you again Herondale. What are you doing here?"

"None of that matters" Jace finally managed gruffly, struggling to speak as tactfully as possible, "Like you said I have both you and your sister ahead of me, so it will never matter. Once I settle your sister's marriage to the Dauphin as I intend to, it will matter even less because soon- God willing- she will have a son for France and Idris to succeed her if the need arises."

Jonathan chortled again, steering his horse towards the thin trail that lead towards the town. Carefully picking his own way down the treacherous slope after his prince Jace failed to keep at bay images of his conveniently mangled body at the bottom of the cliff and Jonathan's oh-so sorrowful face as he addressed the King, "a most terrible mishap, Sire. Fell right off, neck broken instantly, there was nothing I could do…" Jace had to admit the fall was likely not dramatic enough to provide firm foundations for that fear, and by the time he had fully mentally exaggerated the notion of such a useful and untimely death they had already survived the descent.

The ride into the town however had no positive impact on Jace's threadbare nerves. Weaving through the streets as the rain started to fall Jace noted a chilling emptiness and drawn shutters, which stirred up his thrumming fear and lending an twitch to his fingertips, still gripping the reins and longing for a blade in hand. He should have known something was amiss when they'd passed the vacant fields on the ride in but now he was convinced that something was wrong. "Your Highness-" he began to voice his unease to his companion, but Jonathan quickly waved him back to silence. Now Jace could hear an ominous commotion up ahead, the noise he had mistaken for thunder was in fact a stormy din caught between stamping feet and yelling voices, punctuated by the occasional screech which could have come from a human or a horse.

Pulling up to another unanticipated halt, Jonathan stood in the stirrups, yanking the brim of his hat out of his eyes and staring down the broadening street with pure concentration. Jace noted that this must have been the main thoroughfare and passage through the town, his companion had exhibited uncanny wisdom in choosing the alternative route. A moment later the figure of Sebastian Verlac approached at speed, his cap askew and his ragged coat slipping down his right shoulder. As he drew closer Jace spotted an ugly black eye and bleeding lip, then realised that Sebastian was clutching his reins in one hand and brandishing, actually more flapping about a strange metal contraption in the other.

"Verlac," the prince snapped, "What is the meaning of this?"

"Mobbed," the young lord gasped out through gritted teeth, "like a pack- of rabid dogs- the lot of them! Run mad."

"You were mobbed? Then where are the rest of you? Where is my _sister_?" Jonathan demanded shrilly.

Sebastian tried to form a reply but Jace's mind had shut down, utter horror closing around his head and dismay sinking icy jaws into his heart. Clarissa Morgenstern was caught in the midst of rioting peasants, the shrieking, braying mass that had lords in ripped clothing staggering and riderless horses currently galloping past Jace and Jonathan in a frantic bid for the open road leading out of the town. Wayfarer danced anxiously under Jace and he instinctively turned his heels inwards to drive the horse half a stride onwards.

The arrival of a heavy hand on his shoulder made him whirl round to face the prince so fast his neck muscles wrenched with objection. "Leave it!" Jonathan snarled, black eyes flickering between alarm and something that seemed a mere stone's throw from elation to Jace's stunned stare. "Herondale your embassy's over. Reconcile yourself to the fact and quickly for the love of God, before the rabble is on _us_."

"We can't just- she is your sister, they will kill her!"

"Not necessarily." Morgenstern spoke swiftly and with intensity, shortening his sentences with urgency but never once stumbling on his words, almost as though they'd been rehearsed. "Abandon your current ambitions, for this opens the way to new ones. All they need do is dishonour her and my father is one heir short; with her virtue gone she'll get neither husband nor crown for she'll never be a queen. This forces his hand. You'll be acknowledged, titled probably. Your days of diplomacy are over. You are now second in line to the throne. Congratulations, now _ride_!"

Jace shook his head, his world whisked upside-down so swiftly and without warning it was accompanied by a surge of nausea. The sensible thing was to ride away from here of course. Jonathan was right, though it pained him to admit it. Moreover, it would not merely be shrewd but also beneficial for him to ride away.

No more days of kissing monarch's rings and pandering to their pretentious and patronising commands. Jace Herondale would be a prince again and the diplomats would be kissing _his_ ring. No more being treated like an insolent child, no more being laughed at and snubbed. How stupid they'd all look, all the lords who had challenged, doubted and mocked him and their sons who had laughed when they were all all grovelling and bowing with their noses to the floor at his feet.

He had been raised as Valentine's second son after all, he ought to be finally recognised as such.

But at what cost? He could still picture Clary Morgenstern's delighted smile from atop a closed trunk, the purity and hope in her little laugh and the warmth and strength in her surprisingly sturdy body as he pulled her to him in a darkened closet. He recalled the way in which her each and every thought and feeling played out across her open face, how the clarity in her gaze and the sincerity in her voice marked a glowing contrast to the vanity and falsehood that surrounded them. Beyond that it was high time he admitted to the impossibility of shaking off his fond memories of an even littler Clary staring up at him with those huge, adoring eyes, laughing faithfully at every one of his jests and demanding he invent yet another new game or recount one of his wild and silly stories for her. He considered the brimming vitality that petite frame held and met Jonathan Morgenstern's eyes once again.

There was no plea there, he realised, just contemplation and a challenge. This was a test, a simple trial and it did not matter to the young man beside him that his own flesh and blood, his only living sibling, was in the gravest of peril a few short streets away because Jace was the case in study. Before he knew what he was doing Jace was shrugging his way out of the dusty coat to free up his limbs and tossing it to Jonathan, then dismounting hastily and tying Wayfarer up nearby. He bound the worn leather straps up loosely upon deciding he was safe enough from horse thieves with the town's entire population seemingly elsewhere and also in anticipation that he would have to make a speedy exit.

Striding towards Verlac at a pace brisk enough to counteract any change of heart he nodded to the instrument in his hand, "My lord, what is that? A weapon?"

Verlac nodded, casting an appreciative eye over the contraption himself. "It's a gun **.*** Some Eastern eccentric business partner my father had took an interest in such things. He sent me this, says it can be shot like a cannon but from hand. He also predicts it will alter the shape of warfare, but the man's a lunatic. It would probably do the man wielding it more damage than the target. But no one else has anything like it!"

"Fascinating story Sir," Jace replied blandly as he held out an expectant hand. "Give it to me before you hurt yourself."

"You do not know how to use it!" Verlac protested feebly.

Jace made no effort to curb the stinging impatience that had replaced the foreboding in his gut, frowning up at the young lord and growling at him urgently. "I suspect you and I are on much the same plane of knowledge with regard to your strange new weapon, my lord." No sooner had Jace completed his scornful observation than the warm, sleek metal was in his grasp. He gave a gruff nod to the white faced Sebastian and turned in the direction of the commotion. "I recommend you make haste, Your Highness before the life of another royal is endangered," He called over his shoulder, not waiting for a response as he moved rapidly in the direction of the strife.

With such hurried progress it would have been easy for any such reply to have been misheard or misinterpreted, but it sounded as though Jonathan Morgenstern sneered something like, "Oh the Herondales, with their famous beauty and their famous honour" at Jace's turned back before he and his friend galloped off for the preservation of their own hides and Jace headed into the fray.

 _-0000000000000-_

* * *

Clary had lost all sense of bearing long ago. In what had been either an exceedingly stupid or an ingeniously clever move once she had realised that she was the primary target of the crowds antipathy she had swung herself off the horse and started to grope around for some sort of weapon. In her mind staying in the saddle on a horse close to white ****** and in an elevated position was making things a little too easy for her enemies, especially now they were throwing stones. Besides, despite all those riding lessons she'd had with Luke of late she had the feeling that even if she had managed to manoeuver her way out from the wild throng a gallop to safety would probably result in her falling off into their waiting arms and end with her being torn apart.

So instead she tried to conceal herself in the crush of angry bodies, fingers clinging to the leather girth and saddle so tightly that she could no longer feel them, hunching her shoulders and curling herself into a body as small as possible, pressing her head down and fighting with her own slamming heart and ragged breathing.

She was going to die.

There was no point in screaming, there was no one around to hear her and even if they could she doubted they'd be in a position to help. At the first raised voice and tossed pebble her supposed escort Sebastian had turned on his heel and bolted and within minutes most of the other lords had followed suit. For Clary there had been no time and nowhere to run. Hands jerked at her hair and yanked at her clothes while what felt like thousands of blows rained down on her.

The ferocious tugging at her cape cut all the air from her throat and for a terrible second she couldn't breathe, screwing her eyes shut until her forehead hurt too and wishing it would just be over before the clasp holding the cape together broke clean off and the strangling pull on her disappeared. Before she could even process the subsequent relief there were fists and grappling fingers in her hair. This mob was like an unstoppable tide and with each drag of the current the pins holding her hood to her hair were wrenched backwards and upwards painfully until at last the headdress too was pulled free and she was showered in pins hauled free on her scalp with agony so sharp that even behind her shut eyes she saw stars.

This was too much. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. She couldn't do anything but be dragged along in the riptide of fury and wait for it to be over. Clary probably should have spared a thought for her poor mother and her wasted expectations, she could have considered her father and all his ambitious and now pointless schemes for her. But now that the real danger was upon her she couldn't do aught but panic.

As another well aimed blow to her spine sent a bolt of pain through her body and Clary felt her knees buckle and instantly the terror disappeared. Forcing her stinging legs to straighten somewhat and hold her weight Clary marginally loosened her grip on her horse. She was the princess of Idris, and the future queen of France, or Scotland or Austria or wherever her father decided to send her! She had suffered taunts, loneliness and condescending treatment to get to where she was and so she was not about to die cowering behind her horse! The blood of conquerors, perhaps even angels ran in her veins and there was no way she was going to surrender without a fight. Opening her eyes a crack she forced a deep breath of air into her lungs and then another, slowly feeling the cool energy flow throughout her body even as the fire of her own fury sparked up in her chest and spread a coursing, righteous heat with each decelerating heartbeat.

She risked raising her head high enough to scan her surroundings, blinking frenziedly past the raindrops coursing down her cheeks and clasping to her lashes. A merciful split second of a gap between the scrambling, cursing flow of townspeople allowed her a glimpse at what seemed to be stone structure, not far to her right. There had only been one building of stone Clary had seen on the ride in and she had remarked on it; the church.

That was it.

She'd chance a sprint to the Church and once there she would claim sanctuary. Bold as these commoners had been to risk the wrath of their king in attacking his daughter she suspected even they would quail at risking the wrath of God by spilling blood in His house. She had the right to claim sanctuary, and once she had done so none of them would touch her. After that- some kind of rescue party was likely already on its way. Truly what happened next was of no consequence now, her priority was to remove herself from her immediate danger. Prior to her newfound nerve snapping to pieces, Clary released her hold on the mare entirely and flung herself headfirst into the rabble.

That they had not been expecting, she collided with body after body, but all of them seemed too stunned at her unpredictable movement to lay a hand on her. Unfortunately the element of surprise failed to last, before long she was being grabbed at yet again. Not pausing to consider her actions she slammed her elbow into the face of one assaulter and sank her teeth into the hand of someone who tried to seize her from behind. At another point a limb smashed into her legs and drove her to the ground but she writhed her way upright again, jabbing her elbows and kicking her way to the surface again, forcing herself to keep moving. For all that it was becoming obvious that she was not going to make it to the church and she had sacrificed her meagre shelter in moving away from the shielding bulk of her palfrey. In blind desperation she veered her course in the direction of what seemed to be a timber staircase of some sort, mayhap leading to a bell tower? Would that count as hallowed ground that might protect her? She simply had to hope it would.

Breaking away as best she could she fought her way up the first few steps until that became futile as well. Slipping on the damp wood she was easily caught and with her skirts trailing behind her there were ample handholds for the swelling rabble, she may as well be trying to swim to safety with pockets full of stones. In a highly ironic reinforcement of her sentiment an unscrupulously flung rocky missile smashed into the side of Clary's head just as she completed the thought. A mixture of the pain and shock of the blow momentarily blinded Clary and her legs crumpled beneath her.

As her body struck the wooden frame beneath her every breath was knocked out of her and even once she could see again the world swung about, blurring horribly before her confused eyes. Even the racket of the mob became distorted, as though it were filtering to her through the murky water from the bottom of a well. Clary's muscles seized up and she found that she could no longer move them through the drumming pain as the world blinked between black and excruciatingly bright colours.

No one was coming. Not her brother, not her father who was far away at his next house, not Luke who was with him, not Simon who was probably still near Chatton with the baggage train, not even Isabelle who had been separated from her in the skirmish.

It wasn't so bad, she could barely feel the hands on her past the whirling pain and pouring rain, she was hardly conscious of her skirts being partially pushed up or of the single bruised male face looming before her, with lips curled back in a feral snarl and suddenly it was gone and the world seemed to cave in to an echoing, earth shattering bang that might have been a roll of thunder.

Miserably, she waited for the next blow, but it never came. Instead the whole crowd seemed to fall away from around her, even the man clutching at her so hungrily just melted away. With what sounded like a thousand pounding footsteps she became aware of a newcomer taking the place of her attackers beside her and a raised yet indistinct voice that was somehow familiar. The next thing she knew her body was being encircled by strong arms. _Dear God no more_ she prayed despairingly as she was held tight and something hot was pressed against her back. Luckily she was spared the knowledge of what fresh torture awaited her, just as she felt her body lifted up her vision blinkered again and then turned completely black.

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* * *

 **A/N: Two points-**

 ***I am a little premature with my usage of the hand gun, or the pistol as it would be known, but that I will (if my goldfish memory will allow me to remember) address in the AN of my next chapter because it ties in with certain events.**

 ****My years of riding and childhood of horses meant I couldn't do it. I couldn't call her horse white. Unless a horse is albino it cannot be classed as such, it is a grey horse, unless things have changed and I never got the memo. Now if you've read this you have some useless information. Congratulations.**

 **Aside from that I don't really have very much else to add. Ooooh cliffhanger, muahahahahahaha.**


	10. State of Play

_**A/N: And we're back! Apologies in advance for the monster of a chapter, but I wanted to deal with the immediate aftermath of the whole mob thing in one chapter, so here I've worked to highlight the changes in relationships and balance of trust straightaway, so that I can move on to other matters as swiftly as I could. Obviously the psychological effect on Clary will have a long term impact, and even to an extent on Jace, but there will be other more widely felt and unprecedented repercussions to come (though perhaps not entirely unprecedented now that I've told you that- no matter). Thank you once again for the positive responses to the story, they are very heartening and really keep me going! I think that's all I really need to say at this point so... enjoy :)**_

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* * *

 _Chapter 9:State of Play_

 ** _Road to Durre Manor, Northern Lakelands, June 1536_**

Clary Morgenstern felt surprisingly good cradled against him, with her small head propped against his shoulder and the rest of her tucked nicely between Jace's chest and Wayfarer's neck. A more fanciful man might have imagined that they fit perfectly together.

Thankfully Jace was a realist.

More than that, he was a realist who had lost a perfectly good hat and coat in the midst of a reckless rescue mission that had certainly not been part of the job description. Much as Jace despised small print he was sure he would have remembered if dealing with rioting peasants had been stipulated in his letters of introduction. Worst of all, compensation for his loss was highly unlikely, he was certainly not about to receive either an apology and new clothes from the Kings of France and Idris or the aforementioned peasants.

Heaven help him, if the Dauphin didn't marry her now he'd be the next one rioting.

Pessimism aside, he could now sport a fresh bruise on his cheek which was sure to make him appear even more dashing.

However, his primary concern now was Clary. Things had indeed taken a particularly ugly turn in Oldcastle, he dreaded to think what might have happened to her had he not intervened. He could not even begin to describe the terror he had felt arriving in the middle of the town to find waves and waves of enraged bodies tussling and clashing and not a single princess in sight. Through some miracle he had decided to mount a pile of barrels against a tavern in a desperate bid to catch a glimpse of the princess at the same time a distinct red head made a similar attempt to gain a standing on higher ground. His relief had been short lived; the girl looked in bad shape, there was a group of particularly sinister looking bastards hot on her heels and there was no way he was going to be able to get through the crush quick enough to help her.

Just as she hit the ground he remembered Verlac's new-fangled and untrustworthy weapon, panicked and taken aim. _Like a canon but used by hand_ , he had been told. Jace had absolutely no experience with canons, but then again he had no experience of riots either. So he pointed at the base of the steps Clary had tried to climb, not intending to actually harm anyone, and fired.

With the benefit of hindsight he could see that his actions had been utter idiocy. Just idiocy it seemed that had been blessed.

The blinding flash of light and combined scorching heat of the device meant that he almost dropped the damn thing. Luckily his burnt fingers retained their hold, but the weapon's resounding bang had more of an effect than had been bargained for. What must have been the small metal ball the contraption had contained flew out, struck the wooden frame where it left a blackened mark on the timber before it ricocheted off the steps to hit a barrel of fish which promptly exploded. Jace's stomach had dropped like he'd swallowed an anvil, fortuitously it had a similar effect on the surrounding rabble; following a stunned outcry and a momentary panic the crowds kept out of the way of the barrel's contents which were now flooding the streets with water and twitching sea life.

Once the source of the new uproar was traced all eyes were firmly on Jace.

He must have looked thoroughly demented, wielding his mysteriously deadly weapon and crying threats with utter hysteria as he raced through the hurriedly parting crowd, cutting through the once tight packed crowd like a knife. Not a great deal of acting was required, the device had frightened him every bit as much as the townspeople, but somehow he managed to work it in his favour; the pain in his hand and sheer panic burning within him had lent speed to his feet and seen him to Clary's side in heartbeats.

Their actual escape was a blur now, Jace could vaguely remember sweeping Clary's light body into his arms with ease and thinking that a life of holy austerity at her convent had been kind to her; the girl weighed almost nothing. Once he had her safely in his grasp he had charged through the frightened mass still spitting curses and declaring the wrath of God and Satan (and if he wasn't mistaken at one point in his wild fright Michelangelo) upon the townspeople for their violence until he had arrived unchallenged to where an unconcerned Wayfarer waited, chewing on a patch of grass. From that point onward it had been simply a matter of shoving the still warm metal in his belt, lurching into the saddle, securing his grip on Clary as best he could and galloping out of Oldcastle before the locals could discover Michelangelo was not a threat.

Even though the worst of the danger had passed Jace found he felt no peace as the distance between them and the town increased, and it was not because with just the two of them on an open road he felt vulnerable; courtesy of the King's harsh penalties for road theft there were very few bandits on the highways. Truth be told he was growing more and more concerned with every second that passed and Clary did not regain consciousness, once they were at what he judged a safe distance from the trouble and he gratefully slowed Wayfarer to a walk and inspected Clary properly.

 _They_ had not been kind to her, that was clear. Not only was her gown torn in several places but her hair was tangled and dishevelled and her throat was ringed with angry red splotches, not unlike some of the burns kitchen maids gathered on their arms, but these were distinctly finger shaped. She would have worse bruises than him at any rate. The most frightening wound of all was the cut at her temple, while most of the blood had dried to a rustier colour and pasted dark auburn tresses to the side of her face it was still pulsing and oozing bright ruby liquid that trickled down to her cheeks.

Dabbing at her face with the corner of his sleeve Jace wondered if it was a threat to her life. That was the fear that kept his heart flying and his breaths shallow; the fear that she could die despite it all. Because of what it would mean for his embassy, he insisted coldly in an attempt to control his thoughts.

Clary's eyelids fluttered agitatedly and at last opened slightly, blinking frantically before a glassy green gaze fell on Jace. "Princess? Can you hear me?" Jace demanded, his voice unforgivably panicked. She muttered something incoherent and at the poor response something within him, some final cord of restraint, broke once and for all. "Clary?"

"Jonathan?"

Of course. Her brother. It was but natural for her to look for her brother in times of trouble, when she was so distressed. "Nay. It is I, Jace. Jace Herondale. The arrogant Frenchman. The horse thief."

"Jonathan I'm scared" she insisted blearily, moaning slightly and pressing her eyes shut as though the light hurt them, "Don't leave me!" The raw fear and pleading in her tone made him instinctively draw her closer. The sight of the fiery, confident princess reduced to such vulnerability filled Jace with a startlingly powerful urge to protect her, to hold her even tighter and take away all the pain. "All is well. I am taking you home Clary, you are safe now. You are safe with me," Jace found himself speaking with a tenderness he had thought was beyond him.

Even now, stained, bleeding and dirty as she was he was able to see the edges of beauty on her delicate features. As of yet the roundness of the childhood lingered on her face, but it was unmistakable that the small, straight nose, neat mouth and sharpening cheekbones which made her pretty now would soon see her grow into a beauty. Despite the fair lashes and dusting of freckles that excluded her from the measures of traditional beauty she remained captivating, somehow the imperfections made her more endearing and it was more the knowledge of lively spirit this face held that made him want to keep looking at her, to appraise her in a way he could never have dared to were she awake.

Under his study, the princess' lids continued to twitch and her lips trembled, another soft groan escaping her. That woke Jace up, he did not have the time to stroll along and judge her appearance, the girl needed a physician and quickly.

There was just one more matter to deal with. Propping her against his other shoulder and loosening his left arm's grip on her he pulled the devilish contraption of Verlac's from the leather confines of his belt tentatively. Handling the gun warily he moved Wayfarer to the water's edge, half expecting the thing to explode again and blow them both to Kingdom Come. Sucking in a single bracing breath he flung it out into the river as far as he could, tarrying only long enough to watch the silver metal melt into the sleek ripples and disappear from view. Satisfied it was gone, he nipped Wayfarer's sides with his heels and started to canter south again towards his destination, reminding himself to get Verlac to write to his mad inventor and tell him the invention did not work. It had come to Jace's attention that these gun things were bloody _dangerous._

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* * *

Clary's dreams were confusing and frightening. She was convinced that there were monsters everywhere trying to get her, like the scary demons in Hell Dr Fell had shown her painted in the church. As a result, she was partially glad to wake up in a strange bed but primarily disorientated. She flew upright, floundering about in the thick, weighted darkness with her breath coming in sharp, harsh pants that hurt her throat and left her head spinning.

She wanted Mother.

She needed to get out of the bed and go find her nurse, but she was sure that if she put her bare feet to the floor the demons under the bed would grab her. She was afraid to stay in the bed but she was more afraid of leaving it and in such a difficult situation her stalemate of terrors left no remedy save bursting into tears.

Clary hated crying, Mother was forever telling her princesses were strong and her brother always called her weak and stupid for spilling tears. His taunting words had sobered and strengthened her, afterward she had borne all of Jonathan's pinches, tricks and taunts with dry eyes, no matter how much her eyes stung and her chest ached with swelling sobs. However, tonight her disorientation at the unfamiliar surroundings mingling with the fresh distress of her nightmares made her usual self-control impossible, so little Clary wept.

Normally any such noise from her bedchamber would bring Mrs Lewis running, but no matter how hard the small princess cried her nurse did not come. It was only later her charge would remember that her nurse had taken the night off to take care of her own child, Clary's friend Simon, who had come down with a fever. For the time being all the poor girl could do was struggle to calm herself down and stem the flow of tears, failing quite miserably.

Finally the door of her chamber was pushed open, dropping trails of low light from the room beyond across the red and green carpet and floorboards at the foot of the princess' bed. In the brightening entryway Jonathan appeared, carrying a tremoring candle in one hand and a closed book in the other. This Jonathan was not her brother but he might as well have been, for the sight of him calmed Clary instantly.

In fact he was so much kinder to her and patient with her that she had once confessed to Mrs Lewis that she wished this Jonathan was her brother instead. The nurse had hushed her and told her she had said a very naughty thing, for she ought to love her brother and future king unreservedly and be more grateful for the loved ones she had in life. Clary had borne the chastisement meekly but she knew that secretly Mrs Lewis agreed with her and loved this Jonathan much more than her brother as well, she probably wished he were the prince instead too.

"What is the matter?" Jonathan asked her now, his gold eyes glowing nearly the same colour as the candle in his hand. Clary sniffed forlornly in reply, looking at him with her young face so heart-wrenchingly full of despair that he instinctively moved closer to the bed. "Where is my mother? I want her. Where is everyone? Where are we? I'm _scared_!"

Jonathan placed the candle beside the bed and sat beside her, reaching out and brushing away the remaining tears dribbling down her freckled cheeks. "We moved from Havenfold to Princewater Palace for Christmas" he reminded her gently. "Tonight is Christmas Eve and there is to be a masque to celebrate the Yule season, that's where your mother is. Lady Ravenscar also went there with Jonathan and Mrs Lewis' son is sick, she has taken the night off. The nursemaids they left in charge took their absence as a chance to have a few drinks themselves and flirt with the stewards they fancy. I suppose they thought I was at the masque and you were asleep." He spoke so matter-of-factly and sincerely that Clary found herself suitably reassured, though she didn't understand everything he said. Jonathan was nearly twelve now and especially clever, everyone said so, therefore he was right about everything.

"Why didn't you want to see the masked?"

"The masque Clarissa" he corrected softly, sounding superior in the way older children do. "It is a manner of play, only all the players are masques, they act out their scenes and there is dancing. I did not go because I find it all rather silly, and I would rather finish my book."

The book was in fact her brother Jonathan's and had been an early seasonal gift from the King, but his son had not been as enthralled by the present as His Majesty had hoped. The King was forever trying to impress an appreciation of books and learning on his heir and showed himself willing to purchase pricy copies in order to inspire this hoped for eagerness. Tutors told the king that Jonathan was more than capable of making quite the scholar, but he was evidently heartily disinclined at the moment. In this instance he had bitterly complained of the sword he _had_ wanted and so the book had been thrown with great disdain into the other Jonathan's eagerly waiting arms.

"What is in the book? Are there stories like the one about the fox you told me?"

Jonathan chuckled at her fondly, tugging lightly on the carefully braided hair tumbling over her shoulder and straightening her askew sleeping cap. "I fear there are not. It is a very old and very famous piece called the Iliad, it tells about the events of the Trojan War. No foxes, just Greeks. A story about a very beautiful and foolish princess and the bravest of all the heroes, it tells of their most courageous feats and brilliant tricks." With his words his voice rolled, rising and falling in his usual storytelling style, beginning to exhibit the carefully crafted excitement and genuine emotion behind his enthusing that would forever captivate her. He grinned at her again, "As for Felix the Fox, well I must admit he is my own invention. I suspect my tales fall just a hairsbreadth short of Homer." He plucked the book off the coverlet at the admission, "Now will you go back to sleep so Achilles can avenge Patroclus?"

The young princess shifted under her many blankets, growing anxious once again and clenching her small white fists in the sheets. "Don't go! I'm afraid. Please stay with me Jonathan!"

The older boy halted his exit. "Why are you scared?"

Clary drew in a shaking breath, "I had a bad dream," she told him dejectedly. Then with more conviction informed him, "There are demons under my bed!"

Her real brother would have called her a fool and probably gotten angry, but this Jonathan just shook his head and took hold of her clammy fingers, prising them one by one away from the blankets. "Clarissa, you should never be afraid when I'm here. I will always look after you and keep you safe. I would never let anything hurt you." Even with the fringes of exasperation to his promise Clary drew solace. Whatever the other boys might say of him and though she knew her mother did not like him, she believed him and trusted him as she did no one else. So she permitted him to tuck her back in and settle himself on the edge of the bed, the paltry light of the sole candle turning his untidy curls to a dull bronze as he watched over her with that serious gold stare, those remarkable eyes that only existed on him.

"Don't leave me," she begged, peeping up at him with a mildly fearful, sleepy gaze.

"Never," he promised and Clary let the final reassurance lead her back into the depths of an untroubled sleep, because this Jonathan never lied to her and he had promised to always protect her.

Or so she had thought. Only a few short weeks later he had disappeared without explanation and a hurried goodbye, leaving Clary to cry until her whole body was sore from the weight of the tears and he was not there to dry them.

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* * *

One moment Clary was waking up from her nightmares to a darkened room and the next she was being jolted awake by the thrashing pain in her skull, opening her eyes to blazing colours and flashes of a familiar face, the troubled gaze and echoing voice swinging madly before her in a way that hurt her head even more. The unexplainable fear that still had her in its clutches drove her to try and move her lips, to soothe him or warn him she wasn't sure, but then she was a child in the dark again and losing him no matter how desperately she called his name.

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* * *

The sight of Durre Castle looming before him in an impressive grey stone, albeit faded to a muddy brown at the bottom in the descending darkness and tumbling waters of its namesake river nonetheless loosened the weight in Jace's chest and the grip of fear around his throat. "Almost there" he reassured the half conscious girl in his arms though he had long ago established she could hardly hear him.

"Jonathan," Clary whimpered feebly, twisting her fingers tighter on the front of Jace's doublet. She had been clinging him like that, as though her life depended on it, for over an hour and Jace was not about to try and loosen her hold. For one, it reassured him that she was not about to slide off Wayfarer and it also comforted him: while she had that kind of strength in her fingers there was every chance she would be fine. He needed her to be alright.

Head injuries were dangerous, he knew that even if they weren't fatal they could leave life changing consequences, then his whole rescue would have been for nought; Valentine would not look kindly on his bringing her back and Francois would not be best pleased at his failure to preserve the daughter in law he had wanted.

Urging poor Wayfarer into one final burst of speed he brought himself over the lowered drawbridge and to the gates.

The shut gates.

Pounding his fists on the obstinate wood before him Jace cast his eyes skyward, to see if anyone in the surrounding turrets and walls would come to his aid.

Damn these last century castles. Clearly this particular abode had been built in the previous century, when times of upheaval had made such defensive houses a requirement. Not that Jace was averse to such architecture, in fact having grown up in the Lightwood's border castle in Adamant he felt more secure in them than in the open palaces that were now so in vogue. At this very moment though, he would love to be able to ride right up to the front door.

He kept hammering and hollering until his throat and fists hurt. At long last a winking light appeared at one of the arrow slit windows. "Who has the impudence to disturb me with this racket? Where have all the manners gone? One at least expects his enemies to have the decency to assemble an entire army outside his walls before they send in the battering ram." Jace threw his head back and frowned at the unfamiliar voice, trying to identify the lanky figure admonishing him from above.

"Open the gates!" he roared back.

"You're a fine one to be issuing orders, sir, considering you are locked out. The gates will open when I say so and not before."

"If you did not want anyone at your gates you should have raised the drawbridge!"

"It's broken- it- matters not! Get thee gone you..." the end of the reply was lost to Jace from where he waited so far below the speaker but he gathered the sentiments. Much as he would appreciate a good verbal sparring session, he was in the middle of an emergency: "I have the Princess and she needs medical attention. Urgently!"

"I am sure you do. And I am the Holy Roman Emperor."

The razor wit so similar to his own would otherwise have heartily amused Jace, but a low groan from Clary frightened him enough that he opened his mouth to deliver either a heartfelt tirade or ear-splitting scream, whichever his vocal cords produced first.

Then divine intervention took an unexpected form and the figure at the window was suddenly being pushed aside, "Jace? Is that you?"

Jace was ashamed to admit he could have wept with relief. "Alec? Alec! Yes it is me! Please open the gates, Clary has been wounded and needs help." The plea spurred his friend into action immediately; Jace never begged. Squinting through the gloom he could glimpse Alec talking to his companion animatedly, hands flying in heated gestures.

Whatever he had to say to the gatekeeper must have worked, for a few short minutes later Jace was passing into the courtyard and dismounting, carefully pulling Clary down after him and settling her properly in his arms. The bruises on her pale face were the same dark violet as the dusk around them as she blinked at him helplessly, still calling for her brother and pleading faintly, "Don't leave me!"

Soon Jace was being joined by a frantic Alec who peered at the prone princess for a heartbeat before starting to fuss over Jace. "Oh thank God! Your face- you are hurt! By the saints, we thought you were dead! I can't believe-"

"Alec it will have to wait," Jace interjected, "She needs a physician."

Alec's dark had bobbed rapidly in agreement, "Of course, how remiss of me. Here, Magnus!" At his call the tall, slender man lurking in the doorway sauntered over to where the other two boys waited. Now he was closer Jace could fully appreciate the appallingly feathered hat he was wearing and a hose which, had it not been for the poor twilight lighting would probably have been an equally appalling shade of yellow. "My God. I thought you were joking about the princess." He seized a nearby lantern and beckoned instantly, "This way gentleman."

"Oh, so now you decide to be helpful," Jace muttered none too quietly as he followed.

"Please. You cannot expect a fellow to be especially hospitable if you are going to try and bang down his doors at late hours and then start to utter what he presumes to be treasonable excuses upon denial."

"This is your home?" Jace demanded, surprised. The man seemed far too youthful and eccentric to be the owner of such an old building. "Sadly" his host admitted, guiding them indoors and up a winding stone staircase.

"Jace Herondale, meet Magnus Bane," Alec called from behind his friend. Jace noted despite his fretting brain that Alec's tone seemed to soften a little with the introduction.

"Forgive the journey, these are technically the servants quarters but it is the quickest route I can assure you." Jace winced upon his shoulder making contact with one of the confining, damp stone walls that surrounded him, limbs sliding sickeningly along the moist surface. One had to pity the servants.

At long last Bane was pushing open a door and leading them into more civilised quarters, enabling Alec to walk beside them. Upon reaching the royal apartments they paused and Alec cast a critical glance over his friend. "Do you have to carry her like that?"

"Like what?" Jace demanded, huddling against the princess defensively.

"Perhaps it would be more suitable a touch less…bridal?

Jace widened his eyes in horror, "What would be more preferable? My tossing her over a shoulder? She is a Princess of Idris Alec, not a sack of turnips!"

The young Lord Lightwood blinked and then shrugged, "I concede the point."

Now he was convinced there was something strange going on with Alec. Normally at even the mildest sniff of impropriety he would hound his friend incessantly, yet at the moment he seemed remarkably calm and simultaneously rather cagey. Jace despised feeling as though he'd missed something. Still, he had bigger things to worry about presently, bursting into a chamber full of nervous ladies with a bruised face and their esteemed mistress in his arms in a style 'a touch too bridal.'

The Marchioness of Edgehunt was the first to recover from the shock, leaping to her feet as Magnus Bane barked out a summons for a physician. "Put her on the bed!" she cried, gesturing to the closed door behind her which must lead to the bedchamber. "Someone send word to the King!" The next few minutes were a pandemonium of young girls flapping about uselessly aside from a snapping Isabelle and a new solemn faced, curly haired maid. Wearily yet gently Jace laid his precious damsel out on the bed and then was hastily wrenched back while the more sensible of Clary's attendants made some effort to clean her wounds. This was probably the time for Jace's exit but he could not bring himself to move. He would not place a foot outside this room until he knew she was going to be well.

Clary struggled feebly under their ministrations, croaking out her brother's name once again, "Jonathan!"

Jace cleared his throat, feeling uncharacteristically sheepish. "Someone ought to summon the Prince. She has been asking for him the whole journey."

Isabelle lifted her head and fixed an inquisitive gaze on her friend, "No" she speculated softly, "I do not think it is her brother she calls for."

Jace opened his mouth to demand who else it could be but the question stopped at his lips, stomach flipping at the possibility. The mere notion half thrilled him and half horrified him, that even years later this girl could remember the boy who had told her stories to illicit a laugh and dried her tears, on one occasion going to such lengths as hitting a young Mark Blackthorn for teasing her unforgivably on her brother's command. It meant he had not been forgotten by all the Morgensterns, but the fact that a Morgenstern remembered him was dangerous considering it increased the likelihood of further hostility from her brother. Still, his heart leapt and still his feet remained planted firmly on their place on the floorboards.

Whatever slivers of wisdom he had once seen in that decision swiftly shrivelled up as pounding footfalls behind him drew his attention to the King of Idris, who was at the moment storming towards the young Frenchman with a rare expression of undisguised fury.

Jace had forgotten, right up until the moment his stomach plummeted for the second time that day with dread, how terrifying a glimpse of Valentine in this state could be. The merest lowering of his brows and lips to a scowl and already Jace could anticipate the chilling whistle of the wooden rod's descent, or the long empty hours locked in his bedchamber with a growling stomach and no chance of supper. One would hope that at having reached twenty one years of age one would no longer feel ill at their father's displeasure. Realistically he knew that Valentine couldn't whip him or deny him meals anymore, not while he was here in the name of King Francois, but he still struggled to swallow back his instinctive apology and meet the raging monarch's gaze.

The surrounding ladies scattered like a flock of starlings with a hawk in their midst while Valentine seized Jace's shoulders. "What in the name of God happened?" he demanded sharply, then lowered his voice to continue in a manner that made it, if anything, more menacing. "You had better provide with a more satisfactory answer than those whom I have questioned before you, Herondale."

Jace forcibly slowed his own heart rate and tensed his legs to prevent any trembling; he need have no fear, he had done nothing wrong.

At some point during their brief discourse Jonathan Morgenstern had appeared, floating behind his father's shoulder with a carefully constructed mask of indifference. Jace recognised it instantly, having mastered a similar disguise years ago. As Jace began to conjure a reply the prince drew closer, dark eyes boring into Jace's as he tried to form a tactful answer.

"From what I could see a mob happened Your Majesty."

Jonathan's stare intensified, Jace could feel the hidden urgency burn his turned cheek without moving his own eyes from Valentine's. _Oh panic by all means Morgenstern. His Majesty would love to hear of how you abandoned your sister to her peril, and of the distinct possibility you even constructed that danger for her._

Before Jace could make a proper decision as to whether or not he was really going to drop his old foe in the dung Valentine's head snapped from side to side as he irritably shook it, "To Clarissa! What happened to the princess? Was she- did they-?"

Jace shook his head in return, glad to provide news that would be welcomed, "She was not yet dishonoured when I arrived." At that the King visibly relaxed, the tension flooding out of him and his grip on Jace loosening. Both men returned their attention to Clary, who was finally being attended by a physician with the flaps of his dark cap drooping over his wrinkled cheeks and wispy grey beard bobbing with his examinations.

As the inspection was completed a pale faced Marchioness of Edgehunt sidled up to her sovereign once again, "A minor wound, Sire. I am told she will may wake up feeling disorientated and sick but after a few days rest she should fully recover, thank God."

Her King nodded and Jace gratefully exhaled his worries with a deep sigh. Then, to Jace's further astonishment Valentine Morgenstern clapped him on the back. "My daughter is safe thanks to you Jonathan and all will be well because of your actions. I will not forget this." His words sent a trickle of warmth down Jace's spine, like he was still a little boy who practically glowed upon being the subject of some of His Majesty's scarce praise. Having gotten all he wanted Valentine turned on his heels without another word to Jace, and following some brief converse with the physician himself, exited the chamber.

Jace's gaze drifted instantly back to Clary, and through the shifting skirts of her fussing ladies around her he caught a glimpse of her sitting up on the cushions with some kind of rag pressed to her head and a cloudy gaze fixed on him. Even from the other end of the room he could see clearly that her lips formed his name.

Only Alec's tugging on his sleeve could distract him, his friend anxiously drawing him backward, "We need to talk. About what happened in Alicante and what is happening here." Jace nodded absentmindedly, craning his neck in an attempt to see Clary again. "Now, Jace" Alec insisted, uncharacteristically sharply.

"But what if she-"

"Clary Morgenstern will be fine. You have done your bit, beyond satisfaction. Isabelle was caught in the middle of that uproar too you know and she has recovered, so too will the princess; you heard the physician's report as clearly as I did. But what happened today changes everything in this embassy. Come." Much as he hated to admit it, he knew Alec was right. And he had missed his friend, though he would never articulate that either. Besides, now that the danger had properly passed the last of Jace's energy had drained out of him and he found that he longed for nothing more than a warm seat and whatever words of advice his friend may have.

- _000000000000000-_

* * *

Simon drummed his fingers against his thighs, agitation stinging him. In the eyes of all of Clary's attendants he was nowhere near important enough to pass through the doors to her privy chamber. It did not matter that he had known her his whole life or that he was beside himself with worry in all of this, he would only ever be the musician.

 _Invisibility is for the best_ he cautioned himself. The less people noticed him the better, not only should he prefer this invisibility, he should actively court it. It meant there was no one paying him enough attention to notice how his usual zeal for work tended to slacken on a Saturday, or how he was quick to decline the offer of bacon or any other pork dish offered to him.

The dangers of his faith were too real. Elsewhere in Europe monarchs were content to simply tax his people heavily or deny them the right to own property, but considering how Valentine Morgenstern treated fellow Christians who deviated from his personal manner of worship one could only imagine with dread how he might treat a Jew. Idris was close to Spain in its treatment of anyone suspected to be less than the required pillar of orthodoxy; most people of the Jewish faith had been expelled from the land in recent years. Before Luther had ever put pen to paper the Idrisian Jews had been given a simple choice: convert or leave. Those who had remained in open defiance had met a terrible end; in the months following Valentine's ultimatum a particularly bad plague swept through Alicante, and in the midst of such death and suffering the 'infidels' had provided the perfect scapegoat.

It did not reflect on him well as a person that he almost relished the new fervour for persecuting Protestants, but while the population were so attuned to anyone who failed to lower the head at the precise moment the Host was raised or failed to say Amen when the Pope was prayed for, they were not as determined to hear any mutterings in Hebrew. On the other hand, it did mean Simon now had another layer of pretences to keep up. There would a certain amount of delicious irony in being burnt for a Protestant when he had in fact been Jewish the whole time. Despite the dangers of their beliefs neither Simon, his mother or his sister could bring themselves to renounce them. Idris was their home, just as much as it was Valentine's and they were not going to flee because he commanded them too. Still, they had changed their names and kept their knowledge of the Torah well hidden. His mother had consoled Simon and Rebecca from a young age, telling them God would understand that the Sabbath laws would have to be broken and sometimes even the food laws, he would understand that they would have to keep their Sabbath candle covered and would not mind that they dared not pray above a whisper. He had loved his people when they had been Pharaoh's slaves and so seeing His Idrisian believers humbled and fearful would not challenge his love.

In a rather amusing and terrifying twist of fate his mother's desperate search for employment had driven her right to the doors of the royal palace. She had successfully gained a place as one of the new-born prince's many nursemaids and as such made an exceptionally good impression on the queen, so that by the time Clary was born she had been promoted to the position of the princess' primary nurse and governess.

Tonight his fears were entirely for his friend; he had caught but sole a glimpse of Clary's limp figure as she was hurried to bed. Helpless and hopeless, he had taken up sentry duty outside the doors and waited anxiously on a stool in the corner for news. He knew not who he was going to receive that news from or how, but he did know that he was not moving from this spot until he knew that his best friend was going to be well. Simon had watched the King and Jonathan visit briefly, and upon the first of the musician's many failed ventures to the princess' rooms, he was brushed off impatiently by the departing physician. He tried to take those as good signs. Time continued to trickle past and the numbers of people crowding the Clary's quarters gradually depleted but Simon kept failing to catch either the eyes or the attention of any of the oh-so important ladies or maids. He had been relying on Rebecca to be in attendance, but his sister was nowhere to be seen. That sent him on a new trail of fretting, he had to reassure himself several times that they had travelled together with the luggage and had managed to avoid Oldcastle entirely. Mayhap she'd been dismissed early then. Mayhap after the events of the day Valentine did not trust a commoner to touch his daughter, a possibility which was nearly as disconcerting for Simon as his ignorance. Fidgeting once again from the seat everyone had drifted past without so much as a glance Simon contemplated just creeping into Clary's chamber one final time; if all was quiet without then surely all would be quiet within? He twisted his hands nervously in his lap and judged that even if he were caught, the following chastisement would be worth it if he could somehow slip in his enquiry as to Clary's welfare. Just as he lifted himself out of the seat the door to the privy chamber was pushed open and he sank like a stone back to the stool, which screeched alarmingly at the sudden re-instalment of his weight.

Isabelle lightwood paused at the sound and looked at him. She actually looked at him, creamy skin and glimmering eyes even more beautiful than usual in the darkening room, the slanting shadows cast by the candlelight accentuating her perfectly sloping features.

"I expect you can retire for the night. There will be no music or dancing this evening."

Simon's breath hitched in his throat; Isabelle Lightwood was not only looking to him, but also _talking_ to him and she knew who he was. She recognised him as one of the musicians at any rate and that was much more attention than Simon had thought to look for. "You are the lute player, are you not? When you succeed in keeping a hold on your instrument, that is."

Ah. Naturally she remembered _that_.

Despite the fact that his head was whirling with delight and his shocked lungs were struggling to work Simon managed to squeeze the query that had kept him here so long from his throat. "Please, is the Princess going to recover? Will she be alright?"

Isabelle started, having made her point she had been about to move on to whatever errand she had been commanded to. "Yes. I believe so," She stated slowly, turning neatly to face him like a well-trained dancer. Simon doubted the girl ever made a move that was not faultlessly graceful. "Just a minor wound. She is confused, but awake, praise God."

At some point during her statement she had lowered the pile of linen in her arms, revealing the impeccably fastened bodice of her maroon gown,the ruby necklace pressed against her pale chest ringed in a chain of gold, and the neckline of her dress which was exquisitely dotted with fine lace, gold thread and pearls all of which winked softly in the dim lighting. She was flawlessly dressed as always in her usual fine clothes and daring French fashions, looking as though she had just drifted leisurely out of a Paris dressmakers; not a hair out of place. Clary had told Simon recently that she suspected Isabelle could stride through a storm and emerge with nothing amiss aside from her marginally damp hair. He had believed that too, until today.

He had been watching from the window as the bedraggled lords and ladies of the court had gradually trickled to the safety of Durre Castle and had been stunned to espy a clearly shaken Isabelle swinging herself out of the saddle remarkably bareheaded, her hair an unruly mess that was so at odds with the carefully braided coil that had been slipped into her riding cap that morning. Aside from that she had been missing a glove, the hem of her skirts had been ruthlessly torn and there had been a glaring streak of mud across her cheek. All this Simon had been able to see from his distanced vantage point, he dreaded to think what distressing blemishes her appearance may have yielded from a closer look.

The overall affect had been to fill him with an unexpected, lurching, sweltering anger. How dare anyone do such a thing to her? How could anyone think to harm this extraordinary girl, the girl as bright and as bold as the ruby at her throat?

It was folly, he conceded then promptly ignored, to feel such an irrational urge to defend a girl he had (at that time) never spoken to. At least wanting to protect someone like Clary was a reasonable desire, he had looked out for her ever since they had been little children. Once in Broceland Forest when he and Clary had been around ten, his friend had twisted her ankle terribly jumping from stone to stone and had fallen in a stream, whereupon he had fished her out and carried her home to the convent, spending the next few days perched on the end of her bed while she fought off the ensuing chill. But Isabelle Lightwood did not strike him as anything close to a damsel in distress, if anything he could more easily imagine her galloping up to _his_ rescue in a suit of shining armour, it seemed the far likelier prospect.

Nonetheless, he still felt the need to comfort her, to say something, anything, to show her he thought of her. "And you?"

"What of me?" she demanded.

Simon swallowed briefly past his dry mouth, "Are you well, my lady? You were caught in the disturbance too."

She stared at him, long ebony lashed eyes wide with astonishment. "After all that has happened it is me whom you are concerned with?" she demanded incredulously, and then it was Simon's turn to be astonished as her voice wavered with some untold emotion at the end of her sentence. All he could do was blink back dazedly at her, he firmly believed that even if he did know what to say he would struggle to form a single coherent word.

"Yes. I am perfectly fine. Of course."

"Of course," Simon echoed weakly.

She peered at him with a new sort of fascination, as though she was considering something about him, giving him another of those bald, unabashed looks that was so unusual on a woman. Then she made her mind up about whatever it was she had been considering and crossed the room to him in a series of dainty yet brisk steps. She balanced herself on the arm of chair near Simon, offloaded her linen burden on the table beside them and glanced down at him, face slowly warming to a smile while Simon struggled to master the art of inhaling and exhaling in sequence, "So then, my concerned Apollo, do you have a name besides Master Musician?"

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

In spite of all the danger and trauma she had suffered, Clary recovered quickly. Among with all of her lessons and lectures Jocelyn had also unwittingly instilled in her daughter a remarkable resilience. Having watched her mother suffer captivity, uncertainty and effectively poverty without so much as a grimace Clary could draw strength from Jocelyn's fortitude and strove to mimic it. The longer she spent in her father's household the more she dreaded to think what her mother may have suffered during the years of her marriage, she felt she was finally beginning to see why the queen had relinquished her power and run away from her husband. Being Valentine's daughter was difficult and treacherous enough, it must be impossible to be his wife.

Beyond her father's one swift visit when she had properly regained consciousness she had not seen him, but then again she had seen very little oaf anyone having been locked up in her rooms once again.

The frustration of the situation and lingering nausea from her head wound kept her in thoroughly poor spirits, and by the end of her second day being confined to bed she was chomping at the bit to escape her convalescence. It was hard enough for her to look at the same handful of noble girls all day every day in good spirits, as impatient and irritated as she was currently their unshakeable courtesy was grating against her more than ever.

Worse, she had run out of reading material. This left her in truly dire straits, which could not have made her company any more pleasant, she had to admit.

Thus Jace Herondale found her on the second sunny afternoon trapped in a corner chair, flipping through a book with no great enthusiasm and emitting frequent heavy sighs of boredom while she cast wistful looks out the window and over the busy courtyard beneath her sill.

"The French Ambassador is here, Your Highness" Aline Penhallow called over to her from where she thrummed half-heartedly on her harp.

Clary gratefully lifted her eyes to the ambassador's and graced him with a smile. Jumbled and disorientating as her memories of the escape from Oldcastle were, the one factor holding any kind of clarity was of the role he had played. Since then, she had spoken with Isabelle -who of course had spoken to her brother Alec who was the only person Herondale would confide in- and the bigger picture had slowly become visible. She was still reeling from the suspicion cast over her brother, she had known Jonathan was a dangerous enemy, she had seen that much the day she had watched the burnings in Alicante, but she had thought that surely he would draw the line at turning his wrath on his own family.

Initially she could not properly fathom why her own brother would turn on her so swiftly and viciously, it seemed an inappropriate response even for him to the usual sibling rivalry. Then after an enlightening conversation with Isabelle she had learned that her brother was in fact determined to displace her as second in line to the throne, he was so averse to the notion of having her named after him as their father's heir that he would entertain the possibility of replacing her with Jace Herondale, whom he had absolutely no love for. The potency of his hatred left her seething. While she was to her father's eyes a mere pawn to be pushed around various kingdoms and the board of politics in order to gain him more power her brother clearly had no better opinion of her; to him she was but an obstacle to his own power games and one he was sure to attempt to remove again. Only next time he may taste success.

Chilling as her own brother's apparent part in the events that had played out, the more interesting character in all of this for her was undoubtedly Jace Herondale. The boy who had once sworn that he would let no harm befall her had not reneged on his promise after all, perhaps abandoning prospects of greatness and royalty for her and defying her powerful brother in the process. She owed him her life and with it an apology and a thank you.

"Your Excellence," she greeted him, unbearably self-conscious of her being clad only in a thin furred robe over her nightclothes, a hand straying over to her shoulder and the plaited hair lying there, to check it was as neatly in place as possible. "You must forgive me, I was not expecting visitors."

"Your Highness, I only hope to make a better impression on you than I did the last time we were in such a position."

Heat pooled in her cheeks at the comment, in such a state she reminded him of the first time they had ever met. "So much has happened since then, it feels like years instead of weeks" she mused, shooting a scouting glance in the direction of Aline who seemed engrossed in her playing, not that such apparent concentration was any reason to loosen her words from the required protocol. All of her ladies were someone's pair of eyes and ears, her father's, their father's, her brother's, the list of possibilities was endless. Each and every one of her ladies pretty and young faces hid a spy. Whispers in corridors, notes passed under tables, she would never know who was reporting what and to whom, all she could be sure of was that a person of such importance as herself had her every gesture noted and one false move could be catastrophic.

Nonetheless, for this conversation she was willing to make an exception, "I was hoping to see you soon. I owe you my gratitude, Monsieur," She lowered her eyes bashfully,"With my apologies. I have not always been kind to you, not as I should have been and yet you have saved my life. More than my life." She lifted her eyes to his once again and lowered her voice "At a personal cost. I shall not forget that."

Jace started to laugh, and then choked on it slightly, "Madam it was-"

"Do not try and tell me it was nothing, the bruise on your cheek tells me otherwise."

"Princess-" he began, extraordinarily lost for words. The sight did not please her as it once would have. "You do not need to thank me, nor apologise. I did only what any honourable man would have, and in truth it is I who have behaved despicably. So I am sorry. At Oldcastle I merely treated you with the consideration and respect I should have done from the start." She flushed again, but this time not from embarrassment. He looked at her with honest repentance, eyes gleaming with the kind of emotion he normally kept so well hidden.

"Why would you do it?"

The question, vague as it was, needed no embellishment for Jace to grasp its meaning. She fixed on him an especially frank look, while the ambassador started at the forward question and the depth of her understanding as to precisely what had passed between the three o Valentine's children at Oldcastle.

Jace shook his head marginally, lips twitching to a half-smile as he regarded her and provided an answer for more honest than she had anticipated, "It was for you. How could I not?"

The barriers were lowering, Clary noted with pleasure. Clearly she would never get the playmate she had adored back, but for the first time that seemed no great tragedy. What she had instead was this fascinating, brave and dedicated young man who was finally willing to open up to her. The two stared at each other for a very long moment, a fresh trust blooming between them.

At last he spoke, "I must confess that I am devoid of a white flag presentl but since we have arrived at a truce Madam, I pray you accept my peace offering." He passed her a carefully bound package, which she unfolded with anticipation to reveal a small selection of books. She gasped in delight, carefully sifting through the copies and stroking the smooth pages as though they were ancient oriental treasures from the Far East, her eyes exultantly devouring the titles. "For when you tire of Camelot and Cicero. I was about to ask you to take the best possible care of them as they are my own possessions, but I see it is quite unnecessary." The ambassador offered, clasping his hands behind his back and trying to reclaim his usual lofty dignity but the gold gaze on her was still filled with pleasure and the corners of his mouth did not lower from a smile.

"Thank you!" Clary breathed at last, sincerely thrilled. "I had run out of things to read and with no freedom in sight I was beginning to despair," she told him cheerfully. "As for my care of them, I would sooner sever a limb than harm one."

Jace's smile grew, "Then perhaps we are kindred spirits after all."

"Perhaps."

"I would have included my copy of the Iliad, but sadly it is in Greek."

"Would you send it?" Clary demanded, pride flaring, "It is not my best language but I can read Greek."

The ambassador's fair brow lifted at her declaration, "You read Greek? If I might ask-how?"

"My Mother arranged it. She introduced me to a learned clergyman and from there several scholars who taught me. I speak many languages."

"How many?"

"Latin best, but I speak some Spanish, English, Hebrew-"

"Hebrew?! I pride myself on being a learned man, your father and the Count had me taught like a prince but even I must confess my ignorance when it comes to Hebrew! Who taught you?"

Clary stuttered on her reply. She had unwillingly steered the conversation into treacherous territory and was dangerously close to getting Simon in real trouble. "As I said, my mother had me well educated" she responded at length, silently cursing herself. Once again she had let her pride and her tongue run away with her.

"Evidently" Jace gave his head a little shake, amusement now tinged with a darker contemplation as he regarded her. "You are better educated than some boys I know."

Clary shrugged, "It is of no real consequence, my studies have been terminated. No man wants a clever wife."

"Especially not one cleverer than he is."

The princess narrowed her eyes at the diplomat before her. "Excellence, if I am not mistaken that was the opportunity you should have taken to tell me of your scholarly suitor."

"Indeed, Highness" he winced with the observation. They were interrupted by the arrival of Kaelie Whitewillow, who fixed a desperately possessive stare on Jace as she dipped into a cheeky curtsey before him. Jace looked as though he dearly wanted to wince again, instead giving her a swift nod and turning back to the Princess.

Clary chuckled softly, "Her long estranged husband is on death's door. She will be expecting you to declare your intentions soon."

"I am afraid I have no intentions. Not that my thoughts have any great influence, Lady Kaelie has ample intentions for the both of us. She has completely misunderstood my attentions. Besides, she would despise being an ambassador's wife."

There were rumours circulating the court currently surrounding his surname and the repercussions of it, rumours and speculation Jace was apparently oblivious to. There were plenty who were of the opinion, including Kaelie, that the man's royal blood and his new fame as the Princess' saviour would soon lead to advancement and perhaps a title. As he had so recently pointed out, he had all but been raised a prince.

None of this was what really occupied Clary presently, however, "There is another lady you have promised yourself to?" She should not be prying so, certainly not after she had just had a conversation with the man about respect, but she found that she honestly wanted to know. Purely to sate her natural curiosity, of course.

"No. I make very few promises, Your Highness. That way I can keep those I have made more easily," he insisted, looking at her conspiratorially.

A strange elation bubbled in Clary at his words, working hard to curb a smile she peered up at him with feigned seriousness, "Then you had better make good your escape, Monsieur. Only-"

"Yes, Your Highness?"

"Would you call on me again? Soon? Else I fear I will die of the tedium of these rooms."

When he smiled properly with genuine, unrestrained joy, it truly did light up his face.

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

The following day Jace cleared his schedule for her. Of course, it took all of his charm and persuasive techniques to secure Alec's agreement in the matter, but secure it he did having pointed out that this could be the second real turning point in their embassy that week. After all, as Alec himself was the first to point out that the whole game had changed with what happened at Oldcastle, now that Jonathan Morgenstern clearly wanted Jace's head on a pike he had declared himself their enemy, and consequently all the other players had to regroup and rethink their next moves.

Jace did not need Alec's permission to spend the day with Clary but he had wanted to be firmly on the same page as his friend here, particularly now that he felt a tangible distance growing between them with every appointment with the King or the Prince Alec was called to.

So he had made his way to the Princess' apartments not long after first Mass with the Iliad in hand and had embarked on a far more enjoyable day than he had expected. Somehow the two of them managed to keep the bickering to a minimum and by the time he had to reluctantly leave his chair by the window he had discovered that he had more in common with Clarissa Morgenstern than he had realised. Upon spending most of the following day with her as well Jace could conclude that they had a similar taste in books and enjoyment of music and saw eye to eye on a number of political matters, though theology more frequently met with debate. She made him laugh, genuinely laugh, which was a definite rarity and he was unforgivably willing to prattle on with her on whatever intelligence or nonsense came into her head. The only topic that was not touched on properly was the one he had been sent to her to discuss: Jace was ashamed to admit he could not have mentioned the Dauphin's name more than three or four times over two days. And he hardly noticed, when she spoke to him, when she pulled one of her faces or laughed with him he found himself being honest and open with her. With her on those two days he stopped being the French Ambassador, or the Herondale traitor, or even her rival for the throne and he was left with just being Jace. And somehow, what he should have despised he found himself content with.

Another more fanciful man might have said that he felt content with her.

But Jace was a realist with a job to do, so as their second day drew to a close he forced himself to decide that it would be their last. Clearly the princess was fully recovered, there would be no more sunny afternoons watching the sun set over the walls of Durre Castle and chatting idly with Clary.

Tomorrow she would be the Princess Clarissa again, he would not visit her again until she had emerged from her confinement and there would be an audience of courtiers to keep him on his best behaviour and his mind on the game. _It's just a game Jace, she is but a piece._ A piece who would be his prince's bride, if he could bring it about. _It's just a game, all a game…_

But Alec was right, what had happened at Oldcastle and in its aftermath had changed the state of play and it wasn't the same game anymore.

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

Jonathan Morgenstern's visit to his supposedly invalid sister was both long overdue and far too soon for her liking when he arrived in her near empty presence chamber on the third and final day of her seclusion. Clary emerged from her privy chamber, enjoying how the hearty click of her shoes on the flagstone floor changed to a dull thump as she crossed onto rich carpets, she had been gradually coming to appreciate the circular stone rooms of her northwest tower apartments, having no clear memory of a stay in such a castle before.

Better still, having tired of Simon's endless fussing she was looking forward to another day with Jace, the only person aside from Isabelle (who refused to dally with sensitivity) who did not treat her as though she was now a fragile princess made from glass, who could easy tumble to the floor and be shattered, and thus had to be handled with the utmost care, like Monsieur Herondale's beloved books. Perhaps she was not entirely a separate creature to her fantasy princess of glass whom she now longed to draw, she suspected that every conversation she had with Jace he saw through her a little more.

She had been sure that the King would put a stop to the visits as soon as he got wind of them due to her ban on dealing with anything that roughly resembled a petitioner, and above all the diplomats involved in the marriage arrangements. Jace was more than a mere diplomat to her though, mayhap that was why Valentine was turning a blind eye to their meetings, although considerate was not a word she would use to describe her father's actions towards her or indeed anyone.

Her brain pulled the reins on that thought and drove it to a halt as she caught sight of the wrong Jonathan waiting for her by the fire, carefully completing his set up of a game of chess by placing the black king on the chequered board just as Clary entered. "Sister!" he called graciously, straightening up and meeting her stony gaze, "It gladdens my heart to see you so restored to health. Do sit with me."

Clary forced herself to smile back at him, though the gesture strained the muscles of her face. She had learnt in the hardest of ways that just as one did not show their cards at the table one did not wear their heart on their sleeve at court. You smiled outwardly, charmed everyone and trusted no one. Her brother had tried to kill her, and possibly Jace too in order to safeguard his own succession, but without a shred of proof she could not go to the King, that much was obvious. Instead she would have to grit her teeth, go on playing the loving, trusting sister and watch her back.

Presently she glided over to the proffered seat and took up her position opposite Jonathan on the other side of the board.

"I am sorry I could not come and see you earlier but His Majesty kept me very much engaged." If she didn't know better he would have looked perfectly repentant, hand pressed to heart and eyes wide and innocent. "Clary, you must know, I am sorry. I blame myself for all that happened, for all that almost befell you. If I had known that the soldiers had visited just hours before I would have ensured we skirted around the town. I should have stayed with you and been there to defend you as a brother should but I honestly thought that you would be safe with Verlac…"

A pretty speech and to ignorant ears an utterly convincing one. Many of her ladies assembled a short distance away sighed and swooned at his words, touched by his heartfelt apology, Clary on the other hand was far from won over. _It was indeed your fault but I doubt you blame yourself. Well you may lament, but only because your plan failed._ Aloud she offered an accompanying speech of forgiveness, "Oh brother, you know I would not blame you!" with a flash of inspiration she reached for his hand across the table, marvelling at how alike their slim fingers were as she grasped them, "Hush now! I will hear no more of it," she laughed gently, "We are perfect friends."

Jonathan made a show of visibly relaxing, face splitting into a handsome smile, "In which case I thought we could play a game of chess to divert you. I take it you are familiar with the rules?"

"Oh yes!" Clary accentuated her assent, moving her fingers to the smooth, carved white body of a pawn as she made her first move. Raising her eyes to her brother's she let the cheery façade slip momentarily, just a chink out of the armour to let him know that she knew.

He did not need to hear words, nor did she. The siblings, despite having been apart for so long, were alike enough now to read one another's face perfectly as Jonathan made his responding move:

 _"I'll never trust you again."_

 _"You never should have in the first place."_

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* * *

 _ **A/N: Thank you for reading :) I have to admit I'm not one hundred per cent thrilled with how this chapter came out but I figured after tearing my hair out for a while to just leave it and focus more on where the story goes next seeing as I have some pretty big (and hopefully exciting stuff to come). And while I'm throwing in all that suspense I am going to tease you a little further: the little girl in the first chapter/prologue bit is not Clary :O dun dun dun...** _


	11. Matters of the Heart

**_A/N: I promised myself I wouldn't open this with "surprise bitch, bet you thought you'd seen the last of me" but lying to myself is my special talent :) What can I say, school recommenced and when you throw in the joys of applying for universities on top of that I now have a permanent address in stress city :D Then I got to spend some quality time with my old bff writer's block. But enough of the self pity and excuses; I am indeed back and I have another monster chapter to show for it/make up for it. Like I've said before I'm trying not to rush uploads just for the sake of uploading but that's easier said than done and I'm not particularly happy with this chapter. That being said I feel as if it's as good as it's going to get. So thank you so much for bearing with me this far and please continue to do so. In the meantime, as a reward for your patience, have some Clace. ;)_**

 _-000000000000-_

* * *

 _Chapter 10: Matters of the Heart_

 ** _Durre Castle, Late June 1536_**

Avoiding her was not easy. Why he ever thought it would be, or that he could ever manage it in the first place, Jace could not fathom. She was the entire purpose of this damn visit, therefore he was supposed to be filling her ears with empty flattery and buttering her up for his master, not anxiously leaning in to hear whatever it was she had to say every time she opened her mouth when he was in ear shot, nor was he supposed to be craning his neck to catch a glimpse of her every time she passed through a room.

He knew this because King Francois told him as much.

Well, rather the clerk the King dictated to had done so. His letters from France were growing impatient, the King did not want to hear what a brave, intelligent and pretty young woman the Princess of Idris was, he did not give a damn that she liked reading and preferred to dress in hues which made her hair look even brighter; he wanted to hear about her father. Was Valentine susceptible to their suit, what kind of dowry was he offering, what was the state of his military like? If the King of France wanted to know what the girl ate for supper he would ask her cooks and if he wanted to dress her he'd be sure to ask a tailor, Jace Herondale meanwhile was supposed to be negotiating an alliance. Jace Herondale was _supposed_ to be the best diplomat his age, in fact he was _supposed_ to be one of the best diplomats in Europe, the end. So he had better start acting like it or he had best hope that his knowledge of the Princess' favourite pastimes were enough to secure him a job as one of her stewards as he would find his ambassadorial career coming to a screeching halt.

One sharp rap to the knuckles; delivered.

Admittedly Jace had never taken admonishments particularly well, but this irked him more than Pangborn's incessantly loud nose blowing during every meeting the envoy had with Valentine. Reasonable questions, for a King. Francois had the write to complain of the service those he paid provided on the basis that he did pay them, but Jace still snatched the paper up and crushed it in his clenched fist, ruthlessly squeezing and stuffing the letter into a shrivelled little ball before pelting it across his crammed little room. It hit the back of the chair at his desk and then fell to the floor, bouncing indignantly and then rolling a few inches toward him as if it were about to exact its vengeance on the man that had treated it so cruelly. Jace turned huffily and completed the three strides that took him to the bed which filled most of the room he had been allocated. He did not particularly mind having a smaller room as all he did was sleep in it and read berating correspondence, especially since most of his belongings were still in Alicante anyway. However, he had heard enough of Isabelle's whining about the cramped rooms she had to occupy to feel it was proving a problem. Alec, playing the pacifier as usual, had pointed out to his sister that since she spent all of her time with the Princess and now no longer had to share with Kaelie she did not need a larger room, which had not been well received.

Ultimately Durre Castle was a fortress, not a pleasure villa. Why precisely the King had decided to take his court here had become clear fairly soon after their arrival, when his overhearing some of the councillors bemoaning the unexpected residence had prompted a poor jest from Jace: "Well we cannot blame the Herondales on this occasion."

John Carstairs had not laughed.

"The House belongs to Magnus Bane," Jace insisted bleakly, already anticipating what revelation would follow the Earl's grim expression.

"Now," Lord Carstairs responded in a blunt undertone.

Jace did not appreciate this tour of the lands that no longer belonged to him, though knowing Valentine as he did he knew was not meant to. He was not supposed to do any thinking here, he was just meant to do what he was told by whichever King issued the order. That reflection prompted a fresh haze of bitterness as he flung himself down on his mattress, which hissed and groaned its discomfiture at the contact. Jace ripped his boots off and tossed them one at a time to the floor, each landing with a graceful clatter, then he pummelled at the pillow beneath him for a time, bed groaning at the movement as he did so.

Francois clearly did not care about her. How then could he be expected to care _for_ her?

Jace tried briefly to settle himself before the irritation got too much again. Unable to suffer in stillness and silence he leapt up from the bed and strode back to his desk, bringing the candle he had not extinguished to his writing materials and yanking his chair out with such force that it screeched against the floor before falling into it. Ruffling through the papers until he found a clean page Jace dunked his nib in the inkpot and began to write, words flying across the sheet with a ferocity that matched his mood perfectly as he poured out words after word, very few of them complimentary. Occasionally Jace found he had shown too much restraint in what he had just sought to convey and sliced his quill back across the sentences. Between that and the puddles and blots that came from his hand leaning too heavily the whole letter was suitably butchered by the time Alec finally snapped.

"Go to sleep!" he hollered from the next room. The greatest pity about living in this cramped, newer section of the castle was that the walls were unforgivably thin.

"You go to sleep!" Jace yelled back.

"I am trying to! But you insist on waging war with the damn furniture! Then when you finally reach a truce it's the constant scratch-scratch-clink-clink of the bloody writing! Sounds like a bleeding tavern of mice in there!" Jace grinned despite himself, crumpling up his handiwork and entrusting it to the finest courier he could find; the dying embers in the nearby grate. Then he leaned back in his chair again, earning another hazardous rasp from the woodwork, lifting his hands to his face.

"SLEEP!" Alec screamed loud enough to prevent anyone this side of the Seine from enjoying the condition. Jace dropped his fingers just in time to watch the final curl of flame lick his letter to ash, sighing in surrender. "Squeak squeak" he called half-heartedly as he moved toward the bed once again, knowing that even closing his eyes wouldn't shut her out.

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

After two weeks of relative peace Alec should have realised they were overdue a catastrophe. He was nonetheless still horrified when the portent of doom fell from Magnus' lips: "There is to be dancing."

A hitched gasp tugging at the back of his throat he whirled to face his friend (if friend was the correct term for it) who looked back at him curiously. "I thought it was to be a joust?"

Jousts he could cope with, there he was well enough versed in the handling of lists and lances to avoid absolute disgrace. At least in a joust there were definite steps and stages; first the charge and then the contact. It was a simple matter of staying in the saddle and trying to ensure your opponent did not while avoiding death and amputation as best one could for the sake of a purse of gold.

But dancing. That entailed managing a host of intricate steps and judgemental ladies while avoiding the traps of spinning skirts and flying feet, all in time to music.

As Alec launched himself headfirst into a full scale panic Magnus Bane looked as unruffled as ever, though this was a man with the confidence to don rubies that should have clashed with his bold blue doublet and so as clearly not easily phased. He undoubtedly stood out amongst the other dourly dressed petitioners hoping to catch the King's attention, which was truly quite ingenious.

At the present moment though, Alec had other things to worry about. "Yesterday we were jousting for the Prince's birthday" he insisted past his now dry mouth and shrivelling tongue.

Magnus' impenetrable nonchalance didn't even shift, he casually adjusted the papers tucked between his elbow and his chest and sighed. "Tomorrow there is still a joust, but it is to be followed by dancing. For those who are still able-bodied enough and have the necessary limbs intact for dancing." He concluded his statement by hailing a passing courtier's dirty glance with a merry wave.

Alec shook his head desperately, "Magnus! I cannot dance!"

"What can you possibly mean by that? You are a Frenchman! You've danced before the King of France and he is famously cultured."

"I did not dance before the King of France my sister did, and she is exquisite when she takes the floor whereas I am excruciatingly bad. Both for myself and for spectators, I have been reliably informed."

"I would hazard a guess that Jacques is the informant?"

"Jace!" Alec snapped, forcing himself not to flap his arms in his anxiety as he would have done in private. Instead he clutched his hands together at his belt, squeezing his fingers so tight he half expected his knuckles to pop out and be scattered to the floor like broken buttons might burst off a strained coat. "Where did you get Jacques from?!"

"Ah, I knew there was a 'J' involved somewhere. However, what I am attempting to covey is that you need to listen to less of what James tells you."

Alec's eyes flared wide with disbelief, "How are you still struggling to-" he caught himself at the sparkle of humour in Magnus' eyes, "You are doing this on purpose now, are you not?"

"Most observant."

Alec rolled his eyes, wondering why Magnus' amusement amused him where his pride would have been pricked had he suspected himself to be the butt of anyone else's joke. There was something about the way he would fail to hide a smile and invite participation in his jests that made one feel less laughed at than laughed with.

"Fear not Alec there is a distinct possibility you will not be in any fit state to dance before the day of celebration is out."

"How so?" This new causal relationship was uncharted territory, yet not quite uncomfortable.

"Our Prince is vicious in the saddle. His winning is not negotiable and there is not a man alive who would not let him win at any sport on any occasion, especially not at his favourite pastime on a day to celebrate his birth. He knows this, of course, and remains ruthlessly brutal with the lance; Jonathan cares not whether he unseats you or kills you. He has yet to take a life, I admit, but it will only be a matter of time."

"You have seen him ride many times?"

"Yes of course I have" Magnus grinned at him, green and gold eyes rolling again, "Master of the Horse, Master of the Revels, remember?"

Alec winced in embarrassment "I do recall your mentioning something of it yes. It seems to me you have so many positions it is impossible to keep track of what you do or do not do here. You are clearly high in the King's favour." The kind of favour that was evident in his new friend's garb and abundant lifestyle, the kind of favour that was remarkable for someone who did not seem to spend much time residing at court. Truly, it was strange that Magnus Bane, a commoner, should be held in such royal esteem and maintain several positions at court while living in the city. Yet it was clear from having spoken to Magnus that he preferred life in Alicante and his abode on Canal Street was his favourite. All of which only made this curiosity of a man all the more intriguing to Alec.

"Ah that was all the queen's influence. I did some favours for her long ago and she repaid me by helping me gain some standing at court."

"Queen Jocelyn was your patron? How did you survive at court after her fall from power?"

That was rude, Alec realised belatedly. He really needed to stop prying into this man's life and his business, but the desire to know more about him and his past was irresistible. Thankfully at the moment Magnus seemed content to talk.

"She was my first patron here yes. And it was not so much a fall from power as a flight, although she did lose much of her influence here in the months before she left, probably because she ended up disagreeing with the King on more or less every decision he made and meddling in matters that were not supposed to concern her. But the King will not dispose of me; I am far too valuable and I know too much." Magnus broke off and smiled at his companion sorrowfully, shifting on the spot, "And now I fear I have said too much." He laughed lightly, as if fallen queens and the wrath of kings did not matter at all, "I blame you and your serious listening face. One quite gets lost in those big, earnest blue eyes and all of a sudden their soul is bare and their darkest secrets have all seen the light of day."

Unthinking, Alec reached out to pat his arm gently, speaking softly and solemnly before he found the corners of his mouth turning up into a rare smile, "I assure you, I can keep a secret."

"Is that so?" The mirth glinting in Magnus' expression faded to a new intensity at the confession, "You are a keeper of many secrets?"

"More than you can imagine," Alec admitted a touch breathlessly, feeling as though he had been both running and crawling towards the admission.

Aside from Jace there was no one outside of his family with whom Alec did not feel awkward and mistrustful, he always kept himself guarded and controlled and what was in his heart stayed in his heart. He always kept himself to himself because he had very good reason to. Only Isabelle- with whom he had always been honest- had ever suspected what was so different about him, the real reason he kept himself distanced from others and avoided anything even remotely close to a romantic entanglement. He suspected that his sister's behaviour towards marriage was so difficult partially because she wanted to drag out her own journey to the altar for as long as possible and keep their parents' attentions firmly pinned on her so that there was no immediate danger of a match being made for Alec. Although she had assured him countless times that her reasons for destroying any opportunity for a husband were primarily selfish he could not help but be eternally grateful to her in a way he could never express adequately.

"Must you ride tomorrow?"

"Yes, His Majesty has insisted upon it. I think he wants to test the prince's skill against every nobly born boy in the region, get a glimpse of his son's true mettle."

"Be careful," Magnus blinked before hastily adding, "If you please. And for the love of God let him win."

Looking at the handsome and touchingly considerate boy before him, Alec shrugged wryly. This may be the person he had spent the last few weeks laughing with and talking to, at first shyly and then with more of the confidence he so encouraged until he spoke to Magnus Bane with more honesty than he suspected he ever had anyone else, but ultimately he was also far too dangerous to want. The sort of person he would never have, even if he did allow himself to want.

Men like Alec were, according to the Church the King held in such esteem, the worst kind of sinners, hardly men at all and they needed to be punished. Consequently Alec lived in the knowledge that one wrong move, one revelation and his life would be forfeit along with the life of whoever it was he had supposedly sinned with.

Besides, in letting anything more than friendship develop between himself and Magnus Bane he put himself at risk of more immediate and personal pain. He had learned long ago that be it Jace, Izzy or anyone else at all, there would always be someone else everyone would rather want. He would always be second best if he were considered at all. So if he fell in love now, he would never be loved back. There would never be a less opportune moment, for if he fell in love now and got himself in trouble, then who would help restore the family fortune, who would be King Valentine's cats-paw to stop him calling in his debts or withholding any further money?

As guiltily burdened down as he was, there was nought to do but shrug at Magnus in an attempt to dislodge all of the impossibilities weighing on him. "You need not worry about me Magnus, I always lose."

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

Clary had never been to a joust before. When she had last been at court her mother had occupied the royal position of precedence beside the King, and their daughter had been deemed too young to participate. Now, without her mother to hide behind and her brother a participant Clary would be left on her own with her father in the elevated royal box, a daunting experience to say the least.

Although upon settling herself in the more modest chair to the left of the great throne Clary found herself the only royal currently present. For all his complaints of those who were late for an appointment with him Valentine's own punctuality seemed to need some refinement.

Carefully arranging the skirts circling her she lightly trailed he fingers over the smooth saffron kirtle peeping through them, using the soft texture to calm herself. Upon hearing of the planned celebrations for the Prince's birthday Lady Isabelle had been quick to drop a suggestion in her ear; "Tell His Majesty that you will require a new gown, new gowns if you would."

She'd laughed then at her friend's dependable vanity, reflecting that when one had looks like Isabelle Lightwood they were rather entitled to be vain. For Clary on the other hand, her wardrobe was ample enough; she had only had it filled upon arrival in Alicante. "There is no need! I have enough already!"

The ensuing response would have given someone who had just entered the conversation the distinct impression that the Princess had just denied the Holy Trinity or uttered something even more blasphemous. "How can you say that? How can those words have just crossed your lips! Of all the royal daughters in Europe how is it I have been sent to this one?!" Isabelle had tossed her head back to beseech the skies and her Creator while Clary looked on in baffled amusement, until at last her lady's head dropped forward again and she seemed somewhat resigned to her fate. "Ah, I see it now. God is testing me." She took hold of her mistress' hands then, clasping them and gazing into Clary's face so solemnly she seemed about to pledge her troth, "He sees you in your ignorance and dire need and so He has sent me to you to help you see the light." Then she'd sprung up, full of mischievous glee once again, "And by the light I mean your realisation that the Queen of France barely lets a seamstress out of her sight and will have a new selection of gowns at least every season, special occasions notwithstanding, as any state dinners or special feasts and celebrations will warrant a separate commission."

Clary had sighed, stretching out her cramped fingers as she empathised with the seamstresses of France. "So you are saying it would be improper for me not to request a new gown for my brother's birthday."

"Exactly! Disrespectful even, it may seem that you do not think your brother worthy of your best attire."

The prospect had left Clary sorely tempted to dig out the old and plain grey dress lurking at the bottom of her chest, at present sentenced to never see the light of day again. Her ladies had been appalled to find that she still had it in her possession but Clary could not bear to let it go. She could rationalise that she would never don the dreadful thing again but it had been her daily attire at the convent and she found she couldn't yet relinquish the last physical reminder of that part of her life. Besides the potential to very publicly snub her brother was attractive and perhaps even just to her eyes. Isabelle had spoken lightly but she had no idea how correct she had been, Jonathan was the last person Clary wanted to dress up for. Yet she was a princess and therefore could not afford to be so petty. Still, after all that had happened in Oldcastle and in the wake of her conversations with Luke she was not prepared to beg more fine clothes off her father. Unfortunately she did not need to, for one over supper with the King he had told her that naturally she would have a new gown for the occasion. And here she was in a sumptuous scarlet silks and lace, wound through with gold thread and with a pearl studded bodice, skirts parting over the yellow kirtle which was complimented by the golden hood now so expertly perched on her head.

She felt like a gilded figurehead on the prow of a boat, all painted and carved to protection and she even felt she needed to be a stationary as one, decked as she was with garnets, amber and gold she feared that one wrong move would send her toppling to the floor.

It must have cost a fortune, but her father had insisted upon her being fitted for several new dresses, even requesting that the dressmaker also see the ladies who would be joining her at the joust. And so Helen and Isabelle, now officially established as her favourites, were also clad in fresh blue and green gowns respectively. The inconvenience of her leaden attire was not the only reason she felt so uncomfortable in it; this morning as every ribbon was tied and every jewel dropped in its place Clary felt her stomach rolling with guilt. How many had been driven to destitution so she and her ladies would have a pretty new dress to dance in? How many of her people would catch a glimpse of her lovely necklace and want to throttle her with it? Even as the clasp on her necklace had been snapped shut the jewels settling into place around her neck had momentarily felt like gripping fingers…

Tapping her ring bearing finger against the wooden armrest beneath her Clary tried to focus on the jousting lines before her.

Currently a young lad was trying to scrape the sand level as swiftly as possible while another struggling squire headed slowly towards the waiting competitors' tents, battling with an over-excited horse that pranced and bucked at one sight of the drawn up lines. She could see why this box was assigned to the most privileged spectator, it afforded an excellent view of not only the lines but also a pleasantly subtle observation of those members of the court assembled in the stands below her, all with the courtesy of royal badge trimmed curtains to shield her delicate complexion from the worst of the afternoon sun. For example, she could clearly see where Jace and the other two remaining ambassadors sat in the row directly before her in order to get the best possible look at their master's potential bride.

As her eyes snagged on the three men Santiago visibly snapped something at Jace who responded with a smirk and what must have been a well-placed verbal jab, for the small Scot placed between them threw back his grey head and howled with laughter while the snubbed Spaniard wriggled in his seat and strived to keep his hands in his lap _. No need to make it so plain his master is losing half of Italy to yours,_ _Herondale_ , Clary mentally admonished while feeling her own mouth curving to a traitorous smile. She could not help herself when Jace decided to play the jester and the little Scottish ambassador truly did have an infectious laugh.

She missed Jace's company, which she confessed only to herself. She missed the long afternoons when he had made her laugh and then just as quickly stirred her up to a frenzy in a few sentences to debate with him on matters they both felt heatedly about though did not perhaps agree on. Once he had deduced she was almost as well read as he, Jace had apparently decided she was worth a discussion. And yet despite the friendship growing between them once the doors to her chambers were properly opened once again his visits had stopped and he was more distant than ever. It was extremely frustrating; just as the two of them finally seemed to see eye to eye and make progress he disappeared! It was one step forward and about ten back with him.

There was no reason for her to complain of him, not really, in truth he was better behaved than ever; that was the problem. His cool courtesy would have been a balm to her frustrations a month ago, were she asked she'd have said that were what she wanted, but now she had it Clary found that she longed for his quips and wit. He had finally gotten past her prickly pride and envious reservations to let her in, but he had retreated back into himself again and this time she could not seem to reach him. Over his neat responses when she cornered him and he had no choice but to speak to her Clary was beginning to get the impression he was holding himself back, that he was perhaps even afraid of something, or someone. It must be her father. King Valentine was so determined to control her, to make sure every decision she made was of benefit to him and his marriage plans. He had likely given Jace a stern warning to stay away from the princess and to keep business and pleasure strictly separate. Clary could not have a single friend of her own, not if it gave the impression one suitor was favoured above the others.

The young princess rolled back her shoulders defiantly; her father may not favour any one suit but _she_ did and while she knew that making a fuss would not make a difference, she refused to sit idle and be steered into her fate by someone else. And Jace had been more than her sole ally, he had become her friend, which she was still shocked to say. More than anything her father had done to her to date, this she resented most.

It was growing increasingly obvious with every passing day that to her father she was in fact a figurehead, the painted smiling beauty that provided the front of his ambitions, he only required her to be dutiful so that he might attempt to rule her chosen husband through her. It was quite possible her father even doubted that she had the capacity or the intellect to be anything other than obedient.

 _Remember how it feels to be_ _doubted,_ her mother would have whispered in her ear, _use it to drive you forward._ _Imagine their faces when you prove them all wrong._

Besides, with Isabelle as her mentor she was learning that her femininity need not be a setback after all, nay it could become a tool. So with that in mind Clary resolved to see to it that by the close of today she had made some alliances of her own, and with the whole court out in force and in fine spirits the time was ripe for budding friendships. Luke, faithfully at her shoulder, was presently helping her assess who best to approach.

"I need friends, if I am to get anywhere. Friends more significant than the French Ambassador." She had whispered to him as they exited the Chapel that morning, while her Father was busy wishing her brother luck in the joust.

"Quite, right Madam," Luke had agreed with a smile, as though he had been waiting for her to come to the realisation. She wondered how on earth he had extracted himself from the King's company to come and see her this afternoon, yet she was glad he had.

"You can forget about the Cardinal, or indeed any prominent clergyman at court" he recommended, "The Church is most firmly behind your brother and as you tell me he is no friend of yours. The Prince bought their support, to put it simply. He introduced a policy whereby anyone executed on a heresy charge has their wealth and possessions given to the Church, as a sort of additional tithe to compensate for their sin in the hope their souls may yet be saved. A portion of what they make manages to wind up in the royal treasury of course, although who's money it was and how it has wound up there will never be properly documented or explained. So I would not waste my time trying to turn His Eminence from the Prince, not while his sumptuous new palace is being built in Alicante. Besides, he has already given his support to the Imperial suit as he hopes the Hapsburg input would increase the Church's power further. They will not help you get to France."

Clary cursed mentally, that was a severe blow. The Church, with all its power and influence would have been her most beneficial ally, especially as the King was so devout.

Luke continued, "Then there are plenty of the likes of Blackwell, Pangborn and Aldertree who will only work for their own interests at court. Consider that even if your endeavour were successful you would take up residence in France and be of no use to them here; do not expect them to be too sympathetic to your cause."

"Who could I consider then?"

"Well with Jace Herondale on your side the next logical step is John Carstairs, Earl of Chene. His family have been the Herondales closest allies for centuries. He has proved his worth to your father many times over, however I do not think there is much he could refuse a Herondale. If the French Ambassador were to approach him on your behalf I am sure he would be susceptible. Most of all he is an influential man; much of what was the duchy of Broceland fell into his hands and he has a seat on the council."

"The Earl of Chene, a worthy candidate for my friendship indeed," Clary added him to her mental list, "Very well. And if I were to speak with him casually, my lord, are there any topics in particular I should touch upon?"

Luke threw her a knowing look and a wryly appreciative smile, "His daughter, Your Highness. He dotes upon the girl as she is his only child, if you were to ask after her welfare and accomplishments he would talk for hours. She is still merely a child, too young for you to request as one of your ladies I think, but you may suggest that when we return to the capital she accompany her mother to wait on you for a while. That would suitably endear you to my lord Earl."

Clary nodded, rapidly absorbing all he said. "Anyone else you can think of?"

"You may as well aim high. In title at least the greatest nobleman in the land is the Duke of Lyn, Andrew Blackthorn. You need not concern yourself with winning him over, if you secure the support of the Earl of Chene, my lord of Lyn will soon follow. The two men are rarely at odds, and before the poor Duchess died she had the wardship of Chene's daughter, which is the greatest seal of trust one can look for with the Earl."

"And if both were to favour the French match, would that counteract any of the sway the Cardinal may hold on the King?"

Luke winced and tilted his head from side to side, "It is difficult to say, Your Highness. Alone, I would say they do not have much of a chance, and here we are assuming they will agree to help represent your interests, persuading them to do so will not be easy."

"And it would have to be done subtly," Clary agreed grimly, "No man wants to deal with a woman who knows her own mind too firmly. I cannot be seen to give the impression I know better than any man, much less one like the Cardinal." Then her mind snagged on another possibility, "What of my Lord Chancellor?" True, the man governed this realm and not foreign affairs but he was meant to be the King's principal advisor and in the few short conversations they'd had he had given Clary the impression of a soft-spoken, kindly and intelligent man, seemingly someone she could work with.

"I would not pin too many hopes on Lord Starkweather, my lady. He cannot tell the King anything other than what he wants to hear, and on the rare occasion he does form his own opinions he is too cowardly to voice them, not when he may end up gainsaying His Majesty."

Clary sighed with disappointment, it looked as if it would be far easier to find enemies among this court.

She did not have very much time to dwell on her new information and prospects or to discuss others as the bellowing fanfare of trumpets alerted her to the King's arrival and she turned in time to see Valentine enter the royal box, gesturing for her to rise from her curtsey and placing a genteel kiss on the back of her hand. "Clarissa," he greeted her with his usual placid demeanour, "You look every inch the queen today."

"Thank you Sire." Clary managed to respond, feeling herself involuntarily warmed by the compliment. That was foolish, she highly doubted the compliment was a sincere one, he doubtless would have made the remark regardless of how she had dressed or presented herself. Even with that suspicion, as the King led her to her seat she found herself working hard to smile serenely at the cheering crowds in an attempt to make herself deserving of his words.

The joust itself was even more thrilling than anticipated. Clary played her carefully scripted part well, rising as gracefully as possible to bestow the silken wisp of her favour upon her brother's lance, much to the approval of the spectators, and returned to sit by her father with her perpetually pleasant smile pasted to her lips. By the time the sport got underway in earnest there was no longer any acting required, she was on the edge of her seat for most of it, heart racing as the horses charged towards each other, gasping when the lances made contact, recoiling at the dreadful crunching of metal as breastplates and helms were battered and feeling her own stomach drop as a rider fell from the saddle and collided with the dusty earth. Jonathan was savage, he rode like a demon and showed no mercy, none of those he came up against were able to stand up and walk out of the lines unaided. On more than one occasion his defeated opponent had to be carried away, leaving unsightly scarlet streaks on the sand as blood leaked through broken armour. Clary found her hand falling against the hard material of her bodice and regretting the colour as young Jonathan Cartwright was borne back to his tent groaning and bleeding profusely.

Beside her Valentine chortled grimly, beckoning for more wine as the scoreboard was rearranged. "My Lord Cartwright did exceptionally to make it this far at his age. A good joust is guaranteed to separate the men from the boys." He glanced over at his daughter, who was forcing her back to stay against the spine of the chair. She had to keep reminding herself she was supposed to look impassively regal. "You are enjoying yourself?"

"Yes. Although I must admit I preferred the opening poetry and songs, dreadful as the rhymes were." The verses were utterly laughable, her humour only stoked by Simon's admission that his friend Eric was charging a hefty sum for providing the knights with the required poems. A courtly joust was after all not only an exhibition of brawn but of chivalry and art. Having seen some of these men handling weapons and having heard all of the proffered poems Clary got the distinct sense Eric may have to flee the country after this. She amused herself momentarily by imaging him cowering in sanctuary with her mother.

Valentine smiled again, "You have no taste for sport? I had noticed your absence on my hunts." Until that moment Clary had not been aware she had his permission to join him hunting, though the invitation provided no encouragement. On a practical level she had no hunting horse and even if she had, past experiences strongly suggested she wouldn't be able to ride it. Beyond that the fundamental principal of the sport set her stomach turning; the thought of actively hunting down an animal and killing it made her feel ill. "No, my lord. No particular taste for sport."

She couldn't help her eyes darting to where Jace sat beneath her as she contemplated her horse related struggles, he was fidgeting impatiently in his seat, probably longing to be in the saddle himself as Jonathan and Lord Alexander prepared to meet in the final, the Frenchman's huge black warhorse tossing its head impatiently and stamping the ground with its front hoof. Clary felt her own heartrate accelerate as the crowd chanted and cheered. The young French lord had ridden well so far, it was obvious he was skilled but having seen her own brother in the lines she suddenly longed for the joust to be over. Although she had no rushing affection for him, from what Isabelle and Jace had told her of the boy they both loved as a brother she had grown to like the sulky faced yet staunchly honourable Alec. To her left Isabelle was presently leaning forward on her stool and gripping the armrest of Clary's chair so tightly her knuckles protruded and bleached the skin around them. Alec had mimicked Jonathan in turning to his sister for favour and her blue silk tie fluttered on the end of the lance.

"He rides well," Clary whispered to her friend in desperate encouragement. Izzy shook her head silently, mouth pressed into a frightened line. The two visors clicked as there were flicked forward once more and the two riders took up positions as a hush fell over the stands.

"The prince will win, he has to," Isabelle replied in a tight, strained voice, "Please God my brother is not too badly hurt."

"All will be well," Clary insisted out of the corner of her mouth, mentally joining Isabelle in her prayers, then the flag was dropped and the two charged, every pounding stride drawn out as the gap between them closed. Lances were levelled and Clary's breath caught while at the last minute Isabelle gasped and looked away, eyes screwed tightly shut. The clattering thud as Alec hit the earth was drowned out by the roaring delight of the crowd for their prince, who tore off his helm to reveal his pale blond hair stuck to his head with sweat and a triumphant beam.

Once she dared open her eyes Isabelle sprang to her feet and raced to the edge of the box, all composure forgotten and Clary found herself leaping to her feet after her, whether to rush to her aid or spare her the humiliation of being chastised for rising while her mistress was still seated she wasn't sure, but for a split second she genuinely thought she would have to restrain her lady from climbing out of the box and rushing to her brother's side. Mercifully Alec was back on his feet, seemingly relatively unharmed, although he was pressing a hand to his shoulder as he shuffled out of the lines.

Reaching a relieved Isabelle the Princess caught at her friend's trailing sleeve, "Look! He is unharmed!" She declared and started to pull the taller girl back to their seats. It was then that she realised she was not the only one who had rushed to comfort Isabelle.

For the first time in days she was eye to eye with Jace Herondale, and his gaze did not skim away immediately from hers while he stood with a hand on Isabelle's other arm.

One glance, and she forgave his abandonment and dismissed all of his estranging courtesy, she found herself mere metres from him and gazing into his eyes like some dolt of moonstruck maid, frozen on the spot and yet somehow warmed by his stare. Feeling the intensity of that heady gold gaze on her and she finally realised why she had been so drawn to the amber earrings she now wore, why she had been so insistent more of them trim her hood. Jace inclined his head and if her whimsical mind hadn't completely run away with her he looked as though he dearly wanted to speak to her.

The moment ended abruptly with Isabelle disentangling herself from both of them and pulling Clary along in her retreat in the midst of many apologies and reassurances. Forcing herself to turn her back on Jace Clary found herself locking gazes once again, but this time with her father, who had observed the whole commotion without a word or a move, though Clary had been so sure of his displeasure at the foolish maids impending his view of his son's victory lap.

Instead Valentine gave his daughter a little conspiratorial smile, as if he knew exactly the kind of friendship that had flourished between his daughter and his former ward, knew how her heart skipped a beat at a look from Jace Herondale and her whole body was doused in elated heat at a smile. Contrary to Clary's expectations the King had watched it all with an understanding smile of his own, like he were a devious confidant that had just been handed a most excellent revelation. All of a sudden it were as though she had just confessed something dark or dirty to him and he had absolved her and promised his silence.

He knew her very worst secret and had promised to keep it.

 _-0000000000000-_

* * *

The great hall was ablaze with light by the time the long June dusk eventually surrendered to night, every candelabra glowing bright while the beaming candlelight caught in the gems and jewels of the couples on the floor, in some instances the sparkling light tossed off the dancers spun around the walls and floors in a rival dance. Once the dinner plates had been cleared away the King had called for the musicians almost instantly and now his rich, attractive and stylish court leapt and spun and clapped to the tune he set with enthusiastic obedience.

The royal children had been the first couple on the floor. Jace knew from Isabelle's alternating impatience and enthusiasm that the princess and her ladies had been engaged in two gruelling dance lessons leading up to the revels, apparently very little of her earliest sessions with a dance master as a child had stayed with Clary and she had been forced to endure a series of steps and drills in order to participate suitably in the festivities. Finally it seemed they had agreed on a dance both partners could manage, the pavane; traditional yet still sophisticated as the slow gait left little room for mistake and there were no complicated manouveres to master.

It was rather unnecessary to Jace's eyes. Anyone could see the Princess had a good hold on the rhythm and for someone who had only managed a handful of hours of dance instruction after a decade away from the court she might even be considered very good, with the right partner-

Who was he to conceive notions of who the Princess was better suited to dance with?! Jace Herondale, the ambassador, had no right whatsoever to consider- nor should he even care- who her dance partners were. It should not matter to him that her grip on her brother was loose as she moved or that her body was too tense and wooden as she circled the floor. All well and good that he noticed that this was just like her issues with riding, that her normal reaction to situations where she felt lost and out of control was to seize up and that once she relaxed into her own skin she could conquer her fears and manage most things. His hands certainly should not long to hold her and steer her with more grace and confidence and he above all people should not long to murmur an encouragement in her ear and enjoy her slim waist under his hand.

Once the dance ended Clary returned to her seat and seemed determined to stay there for the rest of the evening, engaging herself in a serious looking discussion with Lucian Graymark while Santiago hovered nearby and tried to catch her attention. Gratifying as it would be to watch the Spaniard's embassy enjoy the same success his master's holding of Turin, Jace knew he needed to get his eyes of _her._ He needed to follow through on the promises he had made to himself to stop dwelling on the girl herself and focus on the bigger picture; her marriage. Things were going so well for them now, even with Prince Jonathan now notably against him His Highness still owed Jace for his silence over what had happened with the peasants and the more important person of his father had been looking favourably on Jace and his embassy after Oldcastle. He ought to start feeling more optimistic, and thus more determined. Yet now that a scorned Kaelie had been reluctantly summoned to her husband's deathbed there were no more distractions, even when she returned it would not be as his friend since they had not parted amicably. He needed to get his focus back, and his ambition. He needed to clear his head and put his feet firmly back on the ground, but in order to do so he needed to speak with Alec.

He knew better than to look for his friend in the midst of the lords and princess' ladies now enjoying a carefully choreographed galliard, so he began scanning the fringes of the floor for a sight of a familiar dark head. Instead, he caught the eye of the King himself, reclining on his throne with in a debonair navy satin. Lifting his hand he crooked a finger at Jace.

Apprehension fizzing in his gut Jace approached the monarch in carefully measured strides before bending to the appropriately submissive bow, feeling rather than seeing the Princess turn her own head away from Graymark's to look at him from her seat beside Valentine.

He dared not meet her eye, fixing his attention obediently on the King, but he felt her beseeching curiosity melt away his determination instantly. He used the King's initial gap of silence before addressing him to chance a look sideways at Clary, upon which her gaze hastily slid away once again and he let his flit back to His Majesty's.

"Herondale."

"Your Majesty."

"You enjoyed the joust?"

"Very much so, Sire."

The Princess made some reply Jace could not hear to whatever Graymark had said, immersing herself in the conversation once again.

"Not as much as you would have done were you a participant, I daresay."

Jace smiled despite himself, he had not thought that his frustration at having been restricted to the stands had been so obvious, "I suppose so."

"Your friend Lord Alexander has a talent, but then I suppose he has had the practise of riding against you."

"Once or twice," Jace admitted, "Though the main victor in France is the King's younger son, the Duke of Orleans as the Dauphin-"

"Tell me, why did you not ride today Jonathan?"

Jace's lips pressed shut in confusion. The first real attempt he'd made in days to fulfil his commission and do his job properly and Valentine seemed set to waylay him? The unprecedented occurrence of the King of Idris himself deviating the conversation from his daughter's possible bridegroom made Jace long to roll up his sleeve and pinch the flesh there to check he had not slipped into a dream. Valentine pressed on, curling his forefinger against his chin in a pensive expression, "Most jousts see the appearance of a mystery knight or two. The boy I knew would have concealed his identity, procured a set of armour and a lance from somewhere and triumphed in the joust like a hero in one of those storybooks he was so fond of." He chucked softly, "You nagged at me to let you ride in tournaments all the time when you were a boy and refused to see your tender years a setback. I am surprised that today, with age no longer an obstacle, you let the opportunity pass."

Jace felt his cheek fight against a wince, simultaneously touched and embarrassed by the king's memories of his over-eager child self, "Ah, I felt I had antagonised His Highness enough of late. I suspect the Prince would not take too kindly to being upstaged on his own day."

"You think you could best my Jonathan?" Valentine did not sound angry or insulted, just inquisitive, as though this were a question he would dearly like the answer to.

"I know not Your Majesty, the Prince is clearly very talented" Jace said as smoothly as possible.

The King laughed again, a little louder and more earnestly this time, "How foolish of me to ask for a direct answer from a diplomat!" Unsure of what to say, Jace smiled half-heartedly and held his silence. To his left, Clary's attention flicked back to him once again. She seemed torn between listening properly to what Lucian had to say to her and eavesdropping on her father's conversation. Not that Jace could blame her, he had been trying to overhear her discussion too, but was struggling to make sense of it, having heard names like Ragnor Fell and George Penhallow thrown about alongside other dominant court members. As to what might link them Jace could not fully deduce while trying to pick his words with Valentine.

"No matter," The King concluded dropping his hand back to the armrest and running his thumb over the ring of state on his index finger, "We shall find another use for you this evening."

"Majesty?"

"You have spent ample time at the French court to learn a few dances I daresay, Monsieur Herondale?" Before Jace's mind could turn the corner in the conversation long enough to frame a reply the King had moved on, "Lead my daughter in the next dance."

It was spoken like an invitation, but even with the velvety charm in his words Jace could tell this was not one Valentine would have him refuse, nor indeed was he sure he wanted to.

Clary's eyes shot from Jace to Valentine, face blank with horror, "But father I-"

The King's hand flew up to silence her, forehead rumpling at her audacious protestation. The princess resorted to a desperate glance at Graymark, who stepped forward to rest his hand on the back of the King's chair and intervene as tactfully as possible, "Your Majesty is that prudent? When one considers how it would _look_ to the other diplomats-"

Valentine was not inclined to consider anything, waving away his advisor's consul impatiently, "Dance with her" he repeated his offer, with dark and smooth insistence, eyes never leaving Jace. Forcing himself to hold the unresponsive mask Valentine had taught him to don so long ago , Jace bowed again in compliance and then turned to the princess who regarded him white-faced, lifting his hand and offering it to her, palm up. "Would you do me the honour Madam?"

Clary swallowed visibly, twinkling stones bobbing at her throat and eyes boring into him, questioning and pleading all at once. Jace did not lower his gaze or his hand, seeing himself reflected in her glassy green eyes. He saw the challenge, the plea and then the promise pass between them and after what felt like the longest moment of his life she placed her thin, fine fingers in his and rose.

"Another pavane" the King called to the musicians as Jace led Clary to the floor, past the appalled rage of Santiago, who made a noise of disgust as they passed then stormed for the exit, probably to write an especially unpleasant letter to his master.

The reception from the nobles was not much better, a decisive hush fell over the room and all previous dancing halted, several noses crinkled in distaste, hands were hastily lifted to mouths to shield the frantic whispers darting from ear to ear and Jonathan Morgenstern looked as though his anger was such that there was a serious threat of the rich food he had consumed at dinner making a reappearance. That should have been a gratifying experience, or at least made Jace fear for the welfare of his new shoes which were sure to be the target if Jonathan was in fact sick, but as they waded through the disapproval of the frozen revellers he could not take his eyes off Clary, who was staring up at him bleakly and clinging to his hand with a deathly tight grip. "I hardly know the steps" she confessed as he shifted his hand to the silken material of the gown at her waist and turned her to face him in earnest, "We focused on the dance with my brother, I had not thought beyond that to-"

"Relax. The Pavane is very slow and very simple, follow my lead," Jace reassured her in a murmur, adjusting their stance so that they were ready to start as the other couples took up their own positions around them, he bowed to her out of courtesy, lips skimming the smooth skin on the back of her hand as he placed the expected kiss before rising, taking the opportunity of their new proximity to whisper to her again, "trust me."

The strength of her gaze on him did not wane, even as she dipped her head to the smallest of nods and the music struck up.

With a little direction and encouragement Clary danced quite nicely, slowly loosening her desperate grasp on him as her confidence grew as the cloud of her doubt and bad temper lifted. It was hardly the most exciting of dances, even with her brother a step behind and subtly glowering at them. The lack of complex movements however enabled her to do the one thing he would rather she wouldn't: speak to him. "Am I very dreadful?"

He laughed lightly, "Not at all! I watched you dance with your brother and if I may be so bold you certainly have the potential, perhaps with the right partner-"

"I did not solely mean the dance. Have I offended you in some way?" she enquired without turning her head towards him, sticking rigidly to the structure of the dance.

"Offended me? No, quite the opposite."

"Then why have you been avoiding me?" Jace fell to his knees in a stubborn silence, forcing himself to look amicably up at her while she circled around, neatly transferring her hand from one of his to the other as she completed the turn.

"I have not been avoiding you, Madam, here I am; your dutiful servant as always."

"My servant?"

"Indeed, and your most humble advisor," He tried to keep his voice brisk with purpose.

"Of course, with my marriage in your hands I turn to you on matters of the heart" she noted wryly and tutted impatiently as he rose and the recommenced their measured pacing to the music. "Then I must say you have been a poor councillor for you _have_ been avoiding me. You no longer seek out my company as you used to."

"Your company is much sought after Your Highness and I-"

"Don't call me that!" She snapped with a ferocity that startled even herself.

"What else would you have me call you?" Jace demanded as his own irritation struck up, "It is your title."

"I would have you call me Clary, as you used to. I would have you call upon me, as you used to and above all I would have us be friends again." Her voice was hollow with real hurt, "I honestly believed we were friends at last Jace. I so wanted to be your friend again and I thought that even as everything else I once had is soon to be lost, we had achieved that."

"What are you to lose?" Jace demanded, "You are a princess and soon after you marry, God willing, you will be a queen."

"But I will never see my mother again. I doubt I will even properly get to say goodbye. When the court summons came she spent all her time left preparing me, or tying to, and our parting was so sudden. Now I doubt she will leave the convent to see me off, even when matters in my marriage are settled. Then I will be sent away and won't see anyone or anything from here ever again. You spoke of how if we succeeded you would be my only friend in France. I knew then that you spoke true and now- well I took comfort in that. I thought that I could survive life at a foreign court if I had you there- someone I knew I could trust."

"It will not all be losses. You shall gain a husband," Jace tried to console her, realising for the first time how fragile a comfort that was, "with him you will have a new family and a country."

"Both of whom will be suspicious of me, a foreigner who enters into the match with her own loyalties and her own agenda. And what if I don't have sons? What if they all die and I'm only left with girls? Or worse, what if I have no children at all and my husband hates me?"

"Clary!" Jace admonished, struck by the depth and force of her fears, "He will not hate you! No man could ever hate you!"

"How can you be so sure?" she asked almost inaudibly, lowering her head as the dance ended and was met with a smattering of applause.

Jace did not relinquish his hold on her, though he knew he had already pushed his luck too far for one day, leaning forward instead to speak to her fervently, "I know because I tried. God knows I have tried to hate you, things would have been so much easier that way. But I cannot. Not even slightly."

She peered up at him with glossy eyes and a breathless smile, squeezing his fingers back firmly before she let them go. "Well then, Monsieur. If you cannot hate me I suppose you will have to try and lo-"

"Your Highness, _Excellence_." Clary broke off and Jace started at the unfamiliar voice behind them, turning his head to encounter one of the King's pages. "His Majesty would like a private word, Monsieur." Jace nodded, glancing over at Clary whose expression had frozen over once again, only two splotches of colour across her cheeks to evidence how close they had come to sentiment. She gave him another shy smile and signalled her dismissal, "You must not keep His Majesty waiting" she said agreeably, while Jace was left to reluctantly and warily follow the page into the King's private chambers.

He wondered at what point His Majesty had decided to retire, how much of the dance he had insisted upon had Valentine watched? He feared what was to come, for he had been impertinent and this was surely the reckoning. Had he really been stupid enough to think Valentine would set him anything more than a test? With him nothing was innocent and nothing was meaningless. Everything was an experiment, he liked to throw scenarios and trials at people to measure their reaction and their worth. While Jace had been prancing idly hand in hand with Clary Valentine had likely been deciding his punishment. Another exile, perhaps back to France only this time with a ruined career in his hands as payment for the scandal of dancing with the lady his master's son was supposed to be marrying. Perhaps his punishment would be worse than that, to stay in Idris and be bound to its King and serve Valentine's every whim from now on, in order to keep him firmly in the place he had tried to step out of tonight.

The doors to the inner chambers were pushed open and Jace was left alone with Valentine Morgenstern. This was a great deal more casual than he had expected, Valentine was standing by the fire with a book in his hand. The last time he had been alone with the man he had always considered his father he had been told that a home had been found for him in Adamant and that he no longer had a place at the court that had been his childhood home. On that occasion the King had been every bit as casual, though then he had been much sterner faced. Tonight he closed his book abruptly and smiled at Jace, making him relax instantly. "Jonathan, thank you for joining me."

Jace tried to return the smile and then look as nonchalant as possible while he waited for Valentine to get to the point. "I wanted-nay, needed- to thank you properly for what you did for my daughter. To you I could well owe her life." He smiled again, charming as ever before his face darkened, "I would also put your mind at ease by having you know that there will be repercussions for those who dared to raise a hand against my daughter and in doing so challenged me and my reign. The rebels will be severely punished." Jace wanted to protest that he doubted the mob was composed more of desperate men than rebels, but Valentine had not yet finished speaking. "Yet some good has come out of it. You have proved both your courage and loyalty to me and to my family. I told you it would not be forgotten." He reached out and caught Jace by the arm, the younger man fighting to keep his face blank and his breathing regular.

Was he to _rewarded_? Acknowledged and given his rightful place at last? Even as the possibility occurred to him he recognised the look on the King's face. He would have to do more than save the Princess' life if he wanted to be the Duke of Broceland and openly regarded as third in line to the throne. Clearly Valentine had a better idea.

"You have done me a great service and so I will do one for you in return." He paused, expecting some input or gratitude, Jace was not sure which. All he did know was that most of his thoughts were still back in the hall, with the girl who had distracted him for days and whom he longed to speak to but dared not, at least not in the way he wanted to.

"A service, Your Majesty?"

"Indeed, Jonathan. I am going to make you a promise, here tonight," he gestured towards the book in his hand and Jace recognised it as none other than the King's personal copy of the Holy Bible. "A promise on the Bible itself that you may have from me one favour. One wish, whatever it may be and if it is in my power to make your desire come about it shall happen."

 _Thy will be done,_ Jace thought dizzily as Valentine pressed his hand firmly on the well-loved Latin cover and fixed an earnest stare on the diplomat.

"So then Jonathan, what would you have of me?"

Jace could hardly think, his mind was so crammed with possibilities. "Anything, Sire?" he questioned sceptically.

"You doubt me Jonathan? You think I would play the man who saved my child false?"

Jace shook his head humbly then glanced up at Valentine once again. He had learned many things from this man and the dangers of trust had been one of them. "Majesty, with respect, I trust very few people." _Especially not those who promise the world_ , he added in a private afterthought.

"Yes," Valentine smirked, "You always were an intelligent boy. But in this instance you should put your reservations aside, for I swear on all the saints and on the holy angels I will be true in this. There, you see? You know that such a sacred oath I would never break. I am trusting you in return, trusting you not to harm me or mine in what you demand."

Jace nodded, still struggling to separate one coherent request from another. The first and most obvious option was to do his job. To secure the success of his mission and ask Valentine to make his daughter the Dauphine, so he and the Lightwoods could all go home with royal approval and begin new, better lives. That was what he ought to do and it was the safest thing to do, knowing that Francois would reward him in turn and he would secure a future for himself in France. Why then did his lips not form the words?

He never had been very good at playing it safe.

Part of him couldn't ask Valentine to complete his mission for him, because he had a good chance of success anyway and couldn't bring himself to waste his wish. Moreover, he was loath to give Valentine all the credit for the match, if he was going to bring this embassy to a success it would be because of his own merits and abilities, not because of one reckless decision that had paid off and a lucky fluke with some contraption of Verlac's *****. He knew he was good at his job, at what he did. He needed this to be his success as a _diplomat,_ not a fortunate mistake.

Then he should ask for his title and his lands back. Jace thought of how his heart had soared only minutes ago at the prospect, how he had hoped himself that it would be the outcome of this meeting. That too could give him a future and standing at court, albeit a different one, plus it was only right that he be absolved of his father's crimes. It was not fair in any way that he had been denied his inheritance because of a crime that had been committed even before he was born.

Still he could not make himself say the words.

What then? What else could he possibly want that Valentine could give? Was he still reluctant to deal with Valentine because he doubted the King's sincerity? It was enough to make him want to pound his head off a doorframe until he could clear it of all the confusion and fretting. He doubted that would make the best impression on His Majesty; if he suspected Jace was some kind of lunatic he may be prompted to withdraw the offer altogether, surely not even the Almighty himself could expect an oath made to a madman to be kept.

"Must I decide now?" Jace asked at last, bartering for time.

The King smiled once again, voicing his agreement happily. "But of course Jonathan. I did always consul you against rash decisions."

Jace laughed drily at the reminder, rubbing his hands over his chin with relief, "I never did heed you."

"Well you are still young and learning," Valentine conceded, "By all means, think long and hard about what I may do for you, my boy. There is just one other matter I would speak with you on."

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

Slipping away from the revels was surprisingly easy for Clary once her father had vacated his position of honour. Once it had become clear His Majesty would not be returning that evening most of the older party guests faded away and disappeared to their own apartments, leaving the youngsters of the court to run rampant. And run rampant they would, but later when even the Princess and those of her ladies who still had a care for their reputations were safely tucked up in bed.

Presently, the Princess herself rose from her seat and inched away from her father's unoccupied throne and towards the door. She could try to tell herself she was looking for Isabelle, who had done her own disappearing act some half hour before. She could try to tell herself that she only being a reasonably concerned mistress, that she had but noticed her lady's absence and, having her own suspicions about the young Frenchwoman's unauthorised comings and goings that she had been silently noting for weeks, was determined to see she did not get up to any mischief. Somehow, at this point she was beyond pretending to herself. Clary knew in her own heart as she slipped out of the hall and began to weave her way through narrow stone-lined corridors and winding stairs toward the King's rooms that she was looking for Jace.

She wanted to continue and adequately complete their conversation from earlier and she could not ignore the sense of unease that had clung to her from the very moment Jace had been dragged before the King. None of this boded well, not the inexplicably obligatory dance, not the knowing looks from her father, not Jace's new sincerity and consideration, none of it. If her father suspected even for a second- She needed to see Jace. She needed to find out what was going on.

It was only as she passed a supposedly empty room that a noise like a laugh diverted her attention. Curiosity triumphing over her impatience to find Jace, she plucked her skirts out of the her way and peeked around an ajar door whereupon her thoughts were automatically arrested by the peculiar sight before her.

Rather ironically, as she had gone rushing to Izzy earlier and found herself standing before Jace now she was trying to seek out the ambassador she had found Isabelle. And in a position significantly less compromising than what she might have expected, but still infinitely shocking.

She was dancing, which would not have been remarkable- had she not departed the main hall of noble revellers to do so in an empty by-chamber with Simon Lewis where only the thinnest thread of music could be heard.

Clary looked at the couple with startled eyes, blinked incredulously and stared again but no part of the scene before her altered, the boy hand clasped with Isabelle and shifting his weight in uncertain steps remained her best friend and though she knew him better than anyone she still could not believe her eyes. It was like finding Cleopatra in a painting with the Virgin Mary.

Isabelle giggled softly, a shrill, girlish sound Clary would never have associated with her, tugging on Simon's fingers gently as she corrected their stance. Simon was clearly not going to grasp the courtly steps with his awkward swaying and stumbling and gave up, swinging his arms around in deliberately ludicrous manner and grinning at her. After some initial protest Isabelle too surrendered to Simon's new fool's dance, even laughing with him.

Clary hastily shrank back and closed the door over out of fear they would spot her. She had not seen Simon look so carefree in a very long time, and she had never seen Isabelle act the happy fool like that. The last thing she wanted to do was reveal herself and spoil everything.

Retracing her steps back to the stairs Clary shook her head with disbelief, rather thrilled with whatever it was exactly she had almost interrupted. Turning her way into a deserted gallery still wearing a small smile she stopped in her tracks once again, this time because she had found what she was looking for. He stood very still, staring at a faded tapestry and out into his own thoughts, running anxious hands through his already messy hair, hat apparently abandoned somewhere long ago.

"Jace!"

The ambassador started at her voice, dropping his hands and turning to face her very slowly, skin pale in the gloom and eyes wide.

"What are you doing up here by yourself?" she demanded, approaching him.

"Thinking of you." He cleared his throat then, raising a hand to the dishevelled blond curls once again, "Your Highness."

The formality stopped her in her tracks. What in the name of God had prompted her to presume such familiarity? A dance her father had insisted upon, a shared look at a joust, a handful of borrowed books? He was, as he told her an advisor. Nothing more. Her heart took no heed of that, hammering on defiantly as she locked her fingers together and tried to bridle her thoughts.

"It grows late. You should retire, Princess. I daresay the Marchioness is looking for you."

"The Marchioness has gone to bed herself long ago with a toothache. And we have already established that I have a certain fondness for night time wandering." That sounded dreadfully forward but Clary was already determined to say whatever she had to in order to tempt out a smile. If needs must, any further insinuation of unchaste behaviour from the fellow could be successfully reprimanded with another slap. It would not be necessary tonight, she sensed, as Jace's eyes seemed to drink her in, scanning her as though she were the last mouthful of water he would swallow before setting out into the wilderness.

Without realising, she had moved closer to him, slowly closing the gap between their bodies. Now she was mere inches from him, green eyes unwittingly drawing in gold.

"Clary," her name fell into the silence, soft and rolling with his accent. Not her title but her name, and Clary found herself remembering the two strangers who had met in a similar corridor, the sparks that had flown and the boy who had cared what her name was before he knew her title. The boy who had smiled on her and stopped her fall only to trigger a far more dangerous plummet. The one she was right on the edge of, watching his lips form her name.

"Clary," he spoke again, more determinedly and she recognised at last that he was trying to tell her something, "I have- you will-" The right words eluded him and whatever fleeting sense of duty that had stirred the attempt was forsaken. "I am so sorry."

Clary parted her own lips, initially to ask what exactly he had to apologise for now, but somehow the words never reached her lips. Just the sight of him standing there with that lost expression was enough to strengthen the resolve that had been building without her properly noticing.

She knew she could not change her fate, she knew that the bridegroom may not be set in stone but nothing about her marriage or future was her decision. Just because the destination was non-negotiable did not mean she couldn't alter the journey. She was sick of being pushed around the chess board of politics and she was sick of being a pawn. Once, just once, she dearly wanted to choose her own move and take her destiny into her own hands.

So she stepped forward, thoughts empty of anything but him in a way that could have been either a symptom of clarity or insanity. All at once there was no space between them at all, and she was tilting her head back and her weight forward onto her toes, then she was pushing herself upward, reaching his height, and touching her mouth to his.

His lips were unexpectedly gentle and undemanding on hers yet the contact was enough to send a frantically sizzling heat through her veins, shattering the dreamlike quality of the whole encounter and suddenly she was kissing him properly; feeling him, tasting him. Unthinkable as kissing him had once seemed, the possibility of his responding as he now did should surely have been impossible. It ought to have woken her up or brought her back to her senses, but if any part of her registered that this was utter folly and grossly inappropriate, that this more than anything should result in her pushing him away and serving one hell of a vicious slap for being so impudent, she ignored it.

Instead she leaned into him further, reaching for him as a flower will tilt and grow in search of sunlight. His arms were making their way to her waist, pulling her petite frame towards him and Clary's fingers skimmed the smooth velvet edges of his robes as she stretched out her hands towards him, perhaps initially to shove him away only to cling to him, folding her fingers in the fabric and drawing him even closer, so much so that her skirts were crumpled and squashed upon the contact.

It all lasted but a moment before he let her go, releasing her as swiftly as he had grasped her.

Clary managed an unsteady step backwards and could only stare back at a dazed Jace, who looked as though he had just been jolted out of some reverie, which admittedly was exactly how Clary felt. She strove to find the words that would recapture the moment, recast the spell, but he beat her to it.

"I am so sorry," Jace repeated breathlessly, beating a hasty retreat and thrusting his hands back into his hair. He shook his head rapidly, releasing another single shaky breath while his legs continued to carry him backwards and his bolted retreat gathered momentum.

He was long gone before Clary could catch either her breath or her thoughts, leaving her helplessly alone and confused with only an abandoned cap and her own pounding heart for company and comfort.

 _-00000000000-_

* * *

 _ **A/N: So there we have it! Romance gathering pace all round! :) I feel as though that clace kiss took longer than Henry VIII's first divorce proceedings. As for Valentine, well who knows what that douchebag is up to (I do). *sinister, sleep deprived cackling*. Until next time!**_

 _ ***Note I meant to make on the previous chapter:** _

_**I am a little premature with my usage of the hand gun, or the pistol as it would be known which wasn't in proper operation in Europe until the 1540s and some historians even argue not until the 1560s. However if we are to believe that the name 'pistol' derives from the area pistoria in what is now the Czech Republic which was renowned for Renaissance gunsmithing where they were perhaps manufactured as early as the 1540s then a very early prototype could well have existed in 1536. So I have taken matters somewhat into my own hands, and I am blaming Jace for singlehandedly holding back European progress, though perhaps in this case for the better. I get the feeling that had he been around at the time it is exactly the sort of thing he might have done, given that canonly his decisions around weaponry are not always the best (ahem- skeptron anyone?) So please don't shoot me. Pun intended.**_


	12. Darker Desires

**_A/N: Back due to unpopular demand: me. I've always endeavoured to live by that Tumblr text post. And I've finally realised that there's only so long you can agonise over a chapter before you realise you are not improving it in any way. So here we are. My new years resolution is also to whinge less so I figured I could start early: instead of listening to me complain about my own shortcomings as a human (of which there are many) please just assume I am unhappy with every chapter I produce unless I tell you otherwise :D and on that note: enjoy! (if that's still possible)_ **

* * *

_Darker Desires_

 ** _Bellgate, The Lakelands, Early July 1536_**

After having spent so long at the royal court, the country's epicentre for all scandal and gossip, and given her own recent experiences really Clary should have been less taken aback by such surprises.

Now that the lords had removed themselves to the lakelands for the hottest months of the year to the King's favourite summertime residences, she supposed the heatwave and general sluggishness of noble life had led most people to dally in complacence. Not that this was any excuse.

The King had a week ago announced he was travelling northwards for a while, back to the edges of Broceland forest to pursue some of the game surrounding his woods and stay in his private hunting lodge. So he had departed from Bellgate with a select group of companions, among them his usual circle of friends; Blackwell, Penhallow and the like but also mercifully his son and the three envoys.

Santiago in particular had expressed his affront and the unseemly display at the Prince's birthday and that of his master to a privately indifferent and impatient Valentine, but publicly shocked and remorseful that he had so insensitively given his potential allies reason for complaint. Consequently he had extended this invitation to join him on the hunt as a means of smoothing relations between all parties once again.

To Clary and anyone else who knew the King well it was evidently a false apology, Valentine Morgenstern never acted before he thought and without sound ambition or good reason, though the mentality behind Jace's new elevation was unclear to all. Lovelace rather hastily added the King of Scotland was not thrilled either, though Clary suspected he was bluffing. James Stuart likely cared not one whit who Clarissa danced with or even who she married; he had already made an alliance with France, the support of whom depended on his willingness to marry a French Princess and as such Idris would have to offer one hell of a dowry with its Princess if they wanted her enthroned at Edinburgh.

Yet the worries of her father were not to be hers, not entirely; not now she was on good speaking terms with Lord Carstairs and with thanks to Helen, one of her closest ladies, the Duke of Lyn her father, she hoped that the King would be suitably swayed in the desired direction. Even with Luke and Jace himself currently riding with His Majesty she found herself feeling positive. She had to trust that the matter of her marriage to her allies and hope for a favourable outcome. In fact, with her father and most of his Council away Clary found it difficult to worry at all.

With so many of the noblemen gone with the King Clary found herself at the head of a ladies court. She could almost imagine they would never come back and she could rule her own little kingdom by the lakes in the unending summer days, never troubled by word of a husband or duty ever again. The Duke of Lyn's central residence here at Bellgate was beautiful, situated right on the edge of the lake all of its bright open rooms which all somehow managed to have a view of the waters and sandy beach. With the Duke's sizeable brood of children currently at one of his other houses the mansion at Bellgate was peaceful and perfect for Clary's intentions; with no Jonathan and no Jace the young princess decided to pile the ten years of carefree, pleasure seeking summers she had missed into one. Her aim as of yet was to use the lack of obligations and expectations to clear her head, and get her thoughts back on track and in the right direction.

Their days in the south were spent in sweet indolence, with her ladies Clary could spend the warm mornings drifting though the abundant summer gardens, seeking out the cooler indoors in the simmering afternoons to enjoy poetry and music, or on the days of milder heat out boating on the sparkling expanse of Lake Lyn or any of the other surrounding lakes, gliding over the gently bobbing waves where Clary could trail her fingers in the blessedly cold waters and sitting on the sandy shore to and survey the beauty of the rays of sunlight glittering in the depth, she drew the lake as a rival night sky, lights shining through the glassy water like little stars trapped in the waves. She feasted on the finest fish and water fowl the lakes could offer and the long evenings were spent in song and dance, Clary found herself enjoying the task of mastering several more court dances and encouraging the presence of the travelling minstrels who came from afar to play for her.

Without the presence of men she even persuaded her ladies to relax from their rigid etiquette, on one occasion at the peak of the July heatwave they found themselves in reclining in the gardens with long sleeves rolled up in a way that would have been outrageous to any proper gentleman, hoods and caps long ago discarded as they weaved flower crowns. It must have been a mixture of the hot weather's induced delirium and her own insistence on abandoning some of the most dearly held social expectations that had caused two of her ladies to so forget themselves. There could be no other excuse for what she had encountered one evening as she went to the chamber two of her unmarried companions shared, in order to personally reprimand them for their lateness to supper. More embarrassed than disgusted at the sight awaiting her she had hurried back to her own rooms immediately and had not spoken of it again, not even to Helen and Aline themselves.

Until, that is, the day her father was due to re-join her and Isabelle, who missed very little, had finally decided to challenge her on the new aloofness between herself and the duo. "What is it?" she quizzed the princess over the new altar cloth they were stitching in her chambers that morning as they waited for the herald to announce Valentine's return. "What has happened? Have you been offended by Lady Helen in some way? She no longer sits with us as she used to and she will barely speak to me. Is it the Duke? Has he failed you? Have you lost the Dauphin?"

Her fretting was understandable, now that Clary contemplated it her friend had reached the most logical reason for her mistress' displeasure, and if indeed the French cause was lost then Izzy's brother would be with it. Thankfully, those fears Clary could soothe, "Nay, the Dauphin remains a promising suitor, but I have been offended in a way."

"How so?"

Clary lowered the gold thread in her hand and scanned the room to ensure everyone was engrossed in the tasks she had set them and that her carefully murmured words could not be heard over Simon's strumming. Then in a hurried, mortified outpour she admitted to what she had witnessed. To her horror, at her conclusion Isabelle exhaled a breathless burst of laughter. Clary scowled at her defensively, fighting to keep her voice down, "How can you laugh? It is wicked, unnatural!"

"You think so?" There was some unidentifiable edge to Izzy's voice, and the way she regarded her mistress now was shockingly close to the contempt and dislike that had ruled her interactions with Clary in their first few days together.

"You do not seem surprised," Clary noted sharply.

"It cannot be the first time two girls have taken advantage of the obligatory sleeping arrangements for unwed maidens at court. Think you not it would be far worse if you had discovered Helen with a man on her bed? That carries the risk of her being left with a round belly, which I agree you could not tolerate."

Clary was sure if her face got any hotter it would start to cast off steam, it would never cease to astound her how blasé her friend could be with such things. "You think I should tolerate this then? Ignore it and be thankful it will not get either of them with child?"

Isabelle shrugged, neatly perfecting her pattern and laying down her needle, "I do not presume to instruct you. I only advise with what I would do in your position."

"Which is?"

"You will learn that as a wife and queen there are certain scenarios in which you shall have to learn to be blind to things, for instance any of your husband's…." she groped for a delicate word, "-indiscretions. I have said to you that I do not think Francois would be so callous, but I cannot make guarantees. Such is often the way with arranged marriages, they are not founded on love and fidelity is not expected of King's, just their queens. So you would be expected to pretend you see nothing at all; no pretty gifts your ladies suddenly sport that the allowance you pay them could not purchase, no women His Grace seems to seek out the company of when he visits your rooms, no unfamiliar and beautiful faces that secure a place in your train without the breeding or wealth required and certainly make no recognition of any young children running about the palaces with your husband's eyes or his nose, not unless you are told to. "

It was all stated so matter-of-factly that Clary was left with no choice but to nod grimly, she had heard all of this before from her mother, but like most things she had been taught to expect of a royal station and marriage, it was easier to swallow in theory. She was not stupid enough to expect her future spouse would never betray her but she could at least pray she would never have to suffer the humiliation of a publicly flaunted mistress. Neither did it escape her that a frenzied fury rose with Isabelle's voice as she spoke of mistresses, not for the first time she wondered if her friends knowledge of such matters despite her unmarried status was not the product of having been the other woman to some poor lady's marriage far away in France. Curious as that was, she was more keen to direct things back to the matter at hand; "This I know, but I fail to see what it has to do with either Lady Aline or Lady Helen."

Isabelle scoffed, "I am advising you, Your Highness, to start practicing that kind of ignorance now" she pressed on with bitter vehemence, "To ignore it. I cannot see why it should bother you or indeed anyone. Neither lady is married or promised to anyone, and unless you yourself have a liking to one of them I fail to see who it wounds."

Clary flinched back as though Isabelle had struck her, anger bubbling in the pit of her stomach at the mere insinuation that she- "You go too far, my lady." Somehow her tone was measured while her insides were a riot of discomfiture and outrage, "You should not dare to speak to me that way!"

"Speak to you in what way, Madam?" Isabelle retorted, expression suddenly and savagely alight with wrath, yanking the cloth lying across their knees to her once again, "Did I strike truth? Ah, but I know I have not, for the only one who could _arouse_ such an interest from you is the French ambassador!"

Clary gasped at the insult and felt her own temper break free of its restraints, snatching the altar cloth back again with such venom that it started to split down the middle with a noisy tear. The confrontation now had the attention of every one of the room's occupants but Clary hardly noticed, slighted as she was. "How dare you!" she cried as Isabelle jumped to her feet, springing up after her. Lady Lightwood was so tall that Clary had to lift her chin in order to look her properly in the eye but she did not feel daunted, "You cannot and shall not address me with so little respect! Before we are friends, my lady, I am your princess and you serve me!"

"I am a citizen of France and you are no princess of mine!" Isabelle fired back, defiance unquenched.

"While you are here as my lady you live in my rooms, on the allowance you are paid as a member of my household and you do so upon my pleasure!" Clary wondered if three months ago she would have been bold enough to look anyone in the eye and speak thus, let alone someone like Isabelle Lightwood, but after all she had experienced and endured since them and in the face of all that was promised in her future she felt not one trace of fear, "And I will be treated with courtesy and obedience! Go!" She did not break her stare with the older, taller girl as her punishment burst out of her lungs, "You will leave my presence now and not return until you have craved my forgiveness!"

Isabelle glared back in a scorching silence for the longest time before whirling around and storming from the room, the distant door of Clary's outer chamber banging in her wake. Snapping her fingers shortly for the remaining stunned ladies to resume their activities Clary gathered up the damaged cloth and pondered whether or not she was skilled enough to repair the break. Now that her friend was gone she found her chest heaving under her tightly laced bodice and her legs and arms still trembling, as though she had physically wrestled her instead of verbally. Yet now that her ire was ebbing she found herself feeling strangely hollow.

A muted creak to her right alerted her to the fact that someone had taken Izzy's vacated place beside her. The princess lifted her gaze to meet the frank brown stare of her latest maid in waiting, a young Mistress Roberts from Alicante who she had granted a place on a request from Luke. Apparently she was the orphan of one of Luke's old associates from the capital and had nowhere else to go, but was accomplished and pleasant enough that Lord Graymark thought Clary may genuinely enjoy her company. Clary had to admit she was pretty enough to compliment any royal court with a curved figure Clary herself coveted, soulful dark eyes and the richly curling chestnut hair that fell loose from beneath her headdress. "May I be of some assistance, Your Highness?"

"Yes" Clary said briskly, keen to disguise how much the quarrel with Isabelle had unsettled her, "Help me mend this."

Compliantly Maia took up the material and Isabelle's abandoned tools, "If I may say so my lady…" her newest companion began tentatively. Clary glanced up and gestured for her to proceed, "Well, I know you must have been right to send the Lady Isabelle away, it is just- well- you certainly are your father's daughter."

Clary knew not if Maia had meant it as a compliment, but her observation only strengthened the ache in the princess' chest. When was it she had stopped being Jocelyn's daughter and started being Valentine's?

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

The King and his entourage strode into the great hall early in the afternoon and Jonathan found himself in fine spirits even with the prospect of a reunion with his sister looming. The trip had been a success in many ways, not only had the hunting been good (the prince himself had received a great deal of praise for bringing down the greatest catch, a huge stag) but he had also managed to evade any kind of suspicion of accusation for what happened at Oldcastle.

As far as Jonathan was concerned retracing their steps somewhat in order to get closer to the scene of the disaster could have very easily gone dreadfully wrong. Yet Valentine, conniving as ever, had brought his lords with him on this conveniently planned hunting expedition and once His Majesty had been installed at his lodge a small party, headed by Jonathan, was dispatched to Oldcastle with the task of bringing the King's justice to the discontented rebels.

There would be no more trouble at Oldcastle, the Crown Prince had certainly seen to that. When he had departed the remaining citizens were cowering in what was left of their town like whipped hounds, whimpering and whining. Jonathan tried now to settle himself in the resolution that any evidence of his scheme had been buried with the bodies of those townspeople he had chosen at random to hang for their treason, before setting a torch to the town. His confidence had only grown and solidified upon return to his father, where he had found a grey faced yet mercifully silent Herondale on the edge of the party, skulking around with Lord Alexander.

He had tried to befriend the heir to Adamant at his father's behest but he failed to see how Valentine's policy of buttering up the next Count was going to help him gain his lands for Idris. They would still have to fight France in order put the little province under Idrisian rule and Jonathan could not fathom how his father was going to manage that. Even with his own daughter as the Dauphine of France, Clary would never hold enough influence at the French court to prevent a retaliation. No one conquered a land by sweet talk and bribery, and as a Morgenstern, grandson and heir to a King who owed his crown to conquest and his ability to batter a country into submission, Valentine ought to know that.

But these were not his most prominent problems. He needed to keep his father ignorant of exactly how his daughter had been mobbed. Thankfully, it looked to be entirely possible that Valentine could be kept blind of his own son's involvement; besides from Jonathan himself Sebastian had been the only one to have known of the plan's extent and he could rely upon Verlac's silence. The young Earl had long ago pinned all of his hopes on Jonathan's rising star; being of an age and having grown up together the duo had been running in the same circles since early adolescence and Sebastian and gone out of his way to capture the prince's attention and then his trust. _No prince should be foolish enough to believe he has friends, just allies,_ Valentine had cautioned his son from a young age and as a consequence Jonathan still maintained a distance between himself and Sebastian. Nonetheless, he could trust in Verlac to do his bidding, and even to hatch schemes with him, the two were alike in their unwavering ambition; when they knew what they wanted they were ruthless. Be it drinking, whoring, or toppling an enemy Sebastian Verlac was the one Jonathan Morgenstern wanted at his side.

The only other one who posed even the merest threat of Jonathan's exposure was Jace Herondale. He had been waiting an entire trip to get that damned ambassador on his own, to give him the cautionary words that would shut his mouth permanently, but he had yet to find the chance. He was constantly in someone's company; either Alec's or one of those other two ambassadors, Lucian Graymark and then for some reason John Carstairs and Andrew Blackthorn. What was going on there was anyone's guess, but his spies had informed him that the two lords were now openly in favour of the French match, though God only knew why. Herondale must be bribing them, or buying their support in some way, Jonathan was sure of it as there could be no other explanation. But with what? What the devil could Jace have that could persuade two such powerful men to back him in his diplomatic endeavours? Soft spot the Earl of Chene may have for anyone with Jace's surname, but that alone would not have his pledge, the man was no idiot but a clear pragmatist. So what then? Some kind of French pension for anyone who would voice their support of Francois' plans? That did not make a great deal of sense either, if the French King were promising coin he would have not have approached those two first.

As the trumpets announced his father's entrance Jonathan forced halted his speculating and focused instead on his little sister. She had changed somehow, in the weeks since he had last seen her. His intention at Oldcastle had been to shatter her and he felt that in some way he had succeeded, but only in stripping away the uncertain and innocent girl and leaving this hardier young woman. Her eyes no longer flickered away when she was addressed, she ceased to exuded that shy and nervous tension as she no longer hesitated before speaking to her lords; Jonathan supposed that thanks to him she had encountered much scarier than the pompous snobs at their father's court and life here no longer daunted her.

Today she had donned a lighter dress of the palest blue, which worked nicely with the same yellow kirtle and hood she had worn to his joust, and her fiery hair fell unbound and uncovered down her back to declare her as yet unmarried state. "Your Majesty," she greeted their father with a most welcoming smile as he drew her in to place a fond kiss on her cheek and offer some pleasantry.

Then it was Jonathan's turn. Fixing his own hospitable smile in return, conscious as ever of how many pairs of eyes were watching their every move. He grasped her thin little wrist and twisted her hand to press his lips to the back of it. "Brother" Clary's smile wavered somewhat.

Knowing that his father had wandered away out of earshot Jonathan couldn't resist needling her somewhat, "I hope you did not feel the pain of my absence too keenly, sister."

The Princess' eyes sparked and the corners of her mouth twitched, "I confess I did rather struggle to cope. The only remedy would be to separate ourselves from one another more often." Releasing her hand and grinning in return Jonathan made off after the King. The sharp little wench could have the final word this time; he had finally spotted Jace standing by himself.

The Prince hurried over to where the ambassador was in the middle of removing his riding gloves, "Your Highness?"

"Herondale I need a word with you."

"By all means sire, I am yours to command" Jace made no effort to disguise the sarcasm in his response. No matter, he would not be smirking much longer. "It is about all that happened at Oldcastle."

"Surely the last thing you want me to start talking about is what happened at Oldcastle, Your Highness." Jace peered up at him, darkly pleased with himself and his subtly laid threat. Jonathan did not falter for a second, shrugging off the challenge with ease, "On the contrary, say whatever you wish of it." Jace pulled off his cap and ran his hand through his wind tousled hair, his eyes which had been straying to something or someone over the prince's shoulder darted back to the man before him once again.

"Whatever I wish?" he echoed in disbelief.

"Indeed Herondale. Surely you do not require me to make it plain why it does not matter at all what you say, or to whom? There are very few who would give credence to anything you say anyway, and I expect you would find even fewer who would lend you an ear when what you have to say blatantly contradicts a prince. "

Herondale blinked back at him, seemingly only half paying attention. That irked Jonathan even further, he would not have Jace spoiling his moment of triumph. "There could be no proof to enhance your claims. It would be my word against yours; the word of an ambassador against that of a prince. Who do you expect would be more widely believed?" Now he had his full attention, Jace glared back at him, quite speechless. The sight spurred Jonathan on further, chortling roughly at the envoy's thunderous expression. "At any rate, you missed your chance long ago. There is no way my father would pay you any heed now. Did you really imagine I would let you walk around with something that would keep me in thrall to you? That is what you imagined, was it not?" He shook his head and snorted. No matter how petty the danger they posed he would not give his enemies any power over him, not ever. He would grind them all into dust, and he would begin doing so with reminding Jace Herondale of his inferior status. He would not defy Jonathan again. "Now that there can be no misunderstanding between us I must go, I expect His Majesty has a great deal of business to attend to, given what must have piled up in his absence, he will want me at hand."

His moment of bright glory was instantly tainted as he turned to stride away, only to find himself staring at the one Jace had been so avidly gazing at throughout their conversation; none other than his own dear little sister, who for all her amicable chatter with Lucian Graymark could not tear her eyes away from the young envoy either for very long. The two of them were staring at each other as though it had been years since they had last seen one another rather than one short week. Jonathan knew that in the days before their departure the two of them had been growing ever closer, a constant flurry of books and mischievous looks exchanged in amidst sly smiles, inside jokes and half-hearted attempts to avoid each other and behave properly which inevitably failed. Watching her watch him with that shy and helpless predilection left a burning, sour taste in his mouth. All of this chafed against him in a way nothing ever had before. His plans had all been to dispose of the two of them, not let them live and grow fond of one another.

"Your Highness."

Reluctantly he turned back to Jace's grave face and severe stare, "What you did at Oldcastle? Most recently, I mean; that was not how the situation should have been handled."

Amusement and irritation clashed within Jonathan and at last he loosed a single whoop of laughter, lips tilting into his own finest smirk, "How much plainer must I be with you _Monsieur_ Herondale? No one cares for your opinion."

Well and truly sick of wasting his time on a Herondale, Jonathan turned away once more and made his way towards his father's solar, reflecting that despite his affected confidence Clary and Jace were bad enough as individual threats; seeing his two greatest rivals for the throne making puppy dog eyes at one another could not be borne. And it would not be.

He would broach the matter with his father, today, and remind him that it was not appropriate for her to so openly favour one diplomatic party above the others. It would not take very much persuasion to make Valentine see things the way his son did, Clary and Jace were hardly being subtle and if Jonathan had picked up on a developing bond then the King surely had and he would nip this rebellion in the bud as speedily and piteously as he had the one at Oldcastle. Perhaps Jonathan would even get to do the honours here too.

- _000000000000000-_

* * *

Accepting Valentine's invitation to join in his hunting expedition had seemed like a good idea for so many reasons, predominantly to put as much distance as possible distance between himself and Clary. Avoiding her after that incredibly foolish kiss had been impossible around court.

Mercifully she had yet to mention the incident to anyone, he was certain he would know himself the instant Valentine knew, so the monarch's unchanging and tidy courtesy towards Jace assured him of her father's ignorance. If anything Valentine had been growing warmer in his interactions with the French party, especially now that their arrangement had arisen. Which was why the very last thing he needed at this moment in time was for Clary to open her mouth and reveal exactly what had happened between them, though what exactly had happened between them, Jace could not say. All he knew for certain was that he could not cope with threats coming from both Morgenstern siblings.

Unfortunately his ingenious plan to absent himself from her presence for a whole week had backfired spectacularly, which admittedly Jace's ingenious plans were wont to do.

Absence did in fact make the heart grow fonder.

There had rarely been a moment in the past week when she had not occupied his mind. He had lost count of the number of times over the last seven days he had found himself turning to share his amusement with her when Pangborn said something even more unintelligent and self-important than usual, or when Blackwell had so cheerfully and determinedly cried that, "I have him Your Majesty" as he charged off after the stag, only to slide fabulously off his horse into a stream where he floundered about crying at the top of his lungs that he was drowning until an abashed Starkweather pointed out that all need do was stand up, whereupon it was revealed that the waters only reached his ankle. How Clary would giggle when he told her! The expectation had fuelled his own laughter, to the point where he had to distance himself from the rest of the lords for the sake of decorum, Alec joining him at the edge of the group in isolation shortly afterwards as he succumbed to one of his own rare fits of mirth.

Their good humour did not last very long though, not once the news of the atrocities committed at Oldcastle had filtered back to the lodge. Jace doubted that would subdue the people for long, he knew from his own experiences that such Morgenstern actions would only stimulate the kind of resentment that could burn for years. This would come back to bite them, Jace was sure of it, beating down dissent never did any good save provide an immediate remedy. For long term peace the causes of such discontent needed to be addressed. Though he doubted Valentine and his council would be in any great rush to address the causes of this dissent, when they themselves were the root cause.

He was further sobered by the letter awaiting him when he entered his chamber. He recognised the fleur de lis sealing the parchment instantly, feeling his heart plummet with guilt as he snapped it open and perused the lines of familiar looping script. Reading his way through Francois Valois' personal thanks for Jace's work at the Idrisian court and with the Princess on the young Duke's behalf Jace felt all the more guilty. He had not thought to look for the Dauphin's own words on the matter amongst those of his father, who only ever provided Jace with instructions. It was typical of Francois, he realised now, to feel the need to involve himself. Still, Jace wished he hadn't, for reasons he did not dare to name, not even to himself.

Things had been so much easier when he had first arrived and Clarissa Morgenstern had been nought but a name and an elusive lady kept behind locked doors. Somewhere along the line in the weeks that followed Francois de Valois had been the one reduced to a name and it was only when he entered the Princess' presence chamber in order to seek her out for his own pleasure instead of his duty and saw the portrait of the Dauphin regarding him reproachfully that he remembered -and then only fleetingly- that there was another very real person on the end of these negotiations. A person he respected, and had sworn to serve. That dammed letter was still playing on his mind hours later, well into the small hours of the night each time he woke from his shallow, fitful slumber.

Yet for all his foul mood and restlessness what should have inflamed it; a Morgenstern girl enjoying a summer of pleasure-seeking and revelling in her father's power, proved to be the only balm. She was not nearly as light-hearted as she would have a spectator believe, still struggling as she was to recover fully from what had happened to her at Oldcastle, he even suspected that she did not want to be cured of it. The faces of those people, her attackers though they may be, were likely playing over and over in her mind as Francois de Valois lingered in his.

Isabelle was not speaking to her, much to Alec's distress, but continued to huff and sulk in her chamber which she mercifully had to herself now that Kaelie had been recalled from court. He would not have wished her bad temper on anyone, though the silver lining was that at least he could visit her freely without having to worry about his path crossing Kaelie's. With no chance of an Isabelle/Clary reconciliation on the horizon their embassy had been forced into an awkward position, Alec had informed them all. None of his cozening, pleading or snapping had moved his sister even slightly until at last, exasperated and impatient Alec had told Jace that he would have to take her place.

Jace had been beyond reluctant, protesting as best he could, "I heartily object Alec. I suspect the Princess would find my being present in a gown and offering to brush her hair the very opposite of comforting."

"You know that is not what I meant!" the young lord tutted crossly, "The two of you have grown…close."

 _Closer than you could ever know._

"I know that you two are on good terms now and she likes you. Better still she trusts you. All I am asking is that you continue to do all that you have been doing, only with more enthusiasm and more frequency. Keep her mind on the Dauphin for a little longer, now that we have the Earl and the Duke on our side I get the feeling victory is not far off." Alec sounded markedly more relieved than triumphant at the prospect, not that Jace could blame him. With relations between their parents so poor Jace knew that Alec feared for his little brother, who was merely a child of ten, caught in the crossfire. The sooner the matter of Clary's marriage was resolved the sooner they could all go home. Besides if Jonathan Morgenstern was vying to be his bosom friend Jace would wish himself in another country too.

Home. For Jace it had always been Adamant, at least that was what he was determined to convince himself. Realistically he knew that he had no home. He had lost his family home when his father had been executed and between being stationed at the royal nursery at Havenfold travelling around the King's various estates and palaces he had only ever been constantly reminded of all that he did not have. He had always been an outsider even as a boy and when he had gone to Adamant he had known that he had been sent into exile. He was always on the fringes of the household and the family, because the Morgensterns (bar little Clary who had been too young to understand the bad blood between their families) had gone to such pains to make him feel like an outcast in his earliest years by the time he had reached the Lightwoods, a family who did want to cherish him and make him feel welcome, he found himself incapable of shaking the feeling and returning the affection. He had been on the outside so long he rather feared he did not know how to belong anywhere, or to anyone.

Years ago he had decided to do what Valentine had taught and turn his weakness to a strength; the lack of roots and home made him very good at his job. Moreover, the constant travelling and promise of a foreign placement would satisfy he desire to see at least some of the world, which had settled his decision to turn his hand to diplomacy.

Leading him to his latest dilemma: this policy of integrating himself further with Clary was certainly a recipe for disaster if ever Jace had encountered one. He already liked the young princess far too well and the more he spent in her company the more that feeling intensified.

Even with the letter from Francois folded up and tucked in his doublet in an attempt to sober him he knew was losing himself- admittedly he suspected that he had lost himself long ago, perhaps the second he fished her out of a mob, or the instant she had touched her lips to his, perhaps the moment he had first offered a finger for a chubby little baby fist to grasp. It did not matter when exactly, it only mattered that he had indeed lost himself.

Not that desire was a foreign feeling for him; every so often a girl would catch his eye and occupy his mind for a while but then he would bed her and after he had her a handful of times he did not want her anymore. But she was no hussy he could tumble in a haystack and forget about and this did not feel like desire, though he had to admit her kiss had awakened something within him, some beast that must had been slowly stirring for months. It must be a beast, there could be no other classification for the emotions that so threatened everything he held dear.

Any sniff of impropriety between the two of them and the game would be over. She, being the King's daughter would likely be sent back to the convent she came from, only this time she would not be coming out again because no King would want a bride who would soil her reputation with someone as low in status as an ambassador. As for Jace, he would not be walking away from the scandal unscathed either; at the very least he would never work in royal service again (what King would employ or tolerate a man who would dishonour their wives or daughters?) and the more likely prospect is that he would pay for it with his life, Valentine was not a forgiving monarch.

For someone who had spent his whole life fighting for it he was doing and incredibly good job of throwing it away and plunging headfirst into danger. True, he had always been impulsive, but not on such grave matters. God knew, he had always drawn strict lines for his recklessness and there were certain places he would not go, no matter what. And kissing Clarissa Morgenstern should have been one of them. He was sure it would have been, but previous to her appearing unheralded and unaccompanied in the dim gallery where he had been lost in his thoughts of her, it had never occurred to him. There was something about her that was so different to anyone he'd ever known before. This was no fickle lust or infatuation. That did not absolve him of the insanity of returning that kiss. It also did not stop him thinking of her.

He had forced himself to forget any ties of affection between himself and the Morgensterns in the interests of self-preservation and he had convinced himself that he had forgotten any fondness he had ever felt for this girl, she was to be just a pawn, a prize. But things were different now; he had changed and so had she, and the brotherly love he had once held for her had not disappeared, simply changed too. They were no longer children at innocent games, they were something new. The kind of inexplicable something that had grown out of days of watching her move and laugh and speak with the avid fascination he had been assuring himself was all to the end of writing the most accurate reports of her possible. Now he wondered if it had not been as much for himself as it had been for France. These days when he entered a room he would instantly cast about his eyes for her and only when he found her did it feel as though he could breathe again, until she would say or do something that made his breath catch in the back of his throat. He was suddenly aware of the fact that he was on the verge of feeling something else, something different, wonderful, dangerous.

However Valentine had given him his word and the deal was done. He had played his part and now all was said and done he simply needed to ride out the consequences. Now he merely had to greet the applause with a smile and take his bow.

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

She supposed this spot was as good as any. Shielded as they were by the copse of trees to their left it was unlikely that the could be seen from the house and after taking one of the paths Helen assured her was seldom used, Clary trusted that they would not be encountering any other walkers. Even on the main paths it was unlikely they would have come across many others outdoors at the moment. Not in this heat anyway; you would have to be mad to insist upon a walk just after noon on a day that was perhaps the hottest of the year so far. Mad or desperate.

Clary pivoted slowly to study the two young women before her on her garden path. Aline Penhallow hastily developed an avid fascination with the ground but Helen Blackthorn managed to hold her gaze, even as her face started flaming. "Your Highness?"

Helen was a worrier, Clary had noticed. Ever since the unspeakable incident she had been tossing Clary frantic, furtive glances when she thought she was not being observed and on one occasion Clary had emerged from the chapel to find her clutching at her brother's sleeve, only for the two eldest Blackthorn's to halt their flurry of whispers at her approach. As if she could not guess the topic of that panicked discussion. Yet the one person Helen had been careful to avoid in all of this was Aline, in all the time Clary had spent with them since the two had barely looked at each other. Out of shame, she suspected not, but more out of a fear that one wrong move would have her snap and she would expose their secret.

The girls who had once so intimidated her, made her feel so inferior now fell silent when she spoke, hurried out of the way when she passed by. They obeyed her without a snicker, without a pause, because she was starting to act like a royal, a Morgenstern and that frightened them.

The thought itself was incredulous, or rather it should have been. But Clary knew herself that this court had changed her, perhaps not entirely but she was no longer the naïve, trusting girl she had been whose only concern was that her translations would satisfy her mother so that she could have the afternoon free to be with Simon. Now she was someone entirely different and she was not sure she liked who she could feel herself becoming. She told herself briskly that she had been left with no other choice; had she been on speaking terms with Isabelle she was sure it would not have come to this, for her friend would have most definitely helped her, but the peace treaty between the two of them had yet to be outlined. Clary knew she could have summoned her but truth be told she was too cowardly to do so, likely because she doubted Isabelle Lightwood had ever uttered an apology in her life and she couldn't bear to fight with her again. So here she was, the sort of person who, upon finding someone else's deepest secret falling unexpectedly into her lap was willing to exploit that knowledge to fuel her own darker desires.

Her father's daughter indeed.

"The two of you were raised for a life at the royal court, so clearly you know how to tell people what they want to hear. Beyond that, clearly the two of you know how to keep your mouths shut." Helen sucked in a breath and Aline slowly dragged her eyes upwards from her own feet.

"Keeping one's mouth shut just so happens to be a skill that I myself am acquiring." Now both of them were peering at her curiously, still somewhat fearfully. Before she could lose her own nerve Clary pushed out the words she had so carefully rehearsed: "Which is why we are going to arrive at a compromise."

Helen released a tremulous rush of air and her shoulders sank as Aline fell back on her heels so rapidly Clary wondered for a moment if she as not about to pitch backwards. "A compromise" Lady Penhallow agreed readily. Helen shot her a sideway glance, probably the first time she'd let her eyes stray in the other girl's direction in days. "A compromise" she echoed a heartbeat later.

"Excellent" Clary chirped, trying to disguise the fact that she was every bit as relieved as her two new best friends that her plan had worked. "We cannot be condemned for what we do not know so henceforth there are to be no questions between the three of us," The Princess stated, slicing her eyes between Aline's brown ones and Helen's blue. "The two of you will wait here until I return. As far as anyone else in concerned, you never left my company this afternoon. Understood?"

"Perfectly, my lady."

Clary nodded as matter-of-factly as she could, as though she had just closed a mildly important business deal. Then, praying that her shaking knees could hold her she turned away again and hurried down the path, leaving the two of them alone together. She dared not look back as she reached the water gate, placing her hand over the rough, hot wood and finding it unlocked as promised. She tried to prepare herself for disappointment as opened the gate and passed through, but her heart was galloping on heedlessly. A condition not helped in the slightest by the sight of Jace Herondale lounging against the stone wall behind him and trying to look as unconcerned as possible, though she did not miss the flaring delight that crossed his face when he caught sight of her.

"You came" she acknowledged breathlessly.

"You asked me to." He answered as though it were the simplest thing in the world and not a ridiculous risk that could cost both of them everything. Jace adjusted his stance so that one shoulder was pressed against the wall and crossed one leg behind the other, "No one knows that you are here?"

"No one that will say so." Clary hoped she sounded convincing.

His brows lifted but he refrained from any further comments, "Making friends all on our own are we?"

She tutted irritably, rolling her eyes and placing her hands on our hips, "Don't start."

"You are welcome by the way. Carstairs and Blackthorn are suitably enamoured with your cause. Our cause." He faltered a touch at the end, but fixed a smirk on his lips immediately afterwards and hammered on, "Impressive, I know. Just where would you be without me?" His tone practically oozed arrogance, and Clary was dismayed to see him don the armour she thought she had long ago chipped away.

"Why are you being like this?"

"Why am I here, is the true question" he demanded without actually looking at her, flinging his gaze out over the glimmering water instead.

"Only you can answer that" Clary told him softly yet firmly.

"Well clearly there is to be no pat on the back and a well done. No matter, I am quite used to it. Diplomacy is all too often a thankless job. Foolish of me to expect any alternate treatment from you, I see. So what is the next task to be, Your Highness?" Jace tossed the final two words at her sneeringly and Clary could all but feel her own hackles rising. The only thing that stopped her giving back as good as she got was that she recognised the fear behind his words. It was one thing two girls she hardly knew finding her threatening, but Jace? This was boy she had grown up with, played with as child, laughed with as a friend, turned to in fear and trouble, even the boy she'd kissed…

"That is not why I brought you here." By some miracle the words came out clear and steady. "As you well know."

"I don't know what I know anymore" Jace muttered, barely loud enough for her to hear as he slumped backwards.

Clary was on the verge of letting it all be, of turning her back and going back to where her ladies waiting, returning to her life of sewing and praying to pass the idle hours until her father decided to push her to the next square on the board. But she was sick of feeling like this, sick of being weak and helpless. There was no way she would ever be able to forgive herself if she walked away from him now. There was no way she wouldn't be able to go on with her life and never wonder what might have happened had she found the courage to confront him. "You are here because I kissed you and you-" she gasped in a single breath, shaking her head slightly in disbelief- "And you kissed me back."

"You think that makes you special?" He scoffed with almost convincing venom. Instead of making her angry though, the tension in his body and refusal to look her in the eye finally helped her understand. He could feign all he wanted, to any other audience the façade would be persuasive but she could not forget that he was the one who had risked his own life to save hers, agreed to put his career on the line to enter into an unorthodox alliance and risked her father's wrath to make a deal with her because she feared for her own happiness. Paradoxically, the uncertainty she glimpsed in him now was what solidified her own conviction. Whatever this was between them it was not fickle, and the way she had felt in the long weeks without him suggested that this was not likely to be fleeting either. In which case it was high time she started taking risks for him too.

"Oh yes" she told him softly, approaching him slowly on unsteady legs. Though Isabelle's words had angered her at the time, in the interlude Clary had come to realise they were in fact very promising. If someone else perceived there was something between herself and the young ambassador then it was not all only in her fanciful mind.

At last they were close enough that he had to look at her, though he carefully avoided looking her straight in the eye, focusing instead on her moving lips. "You should know that your charade cannot fool me anymore."

From this new proximity she could observe the single swift breath he drew in and flutter of fair lashes as he at last met her gaze in earnest. Where she got the audacity from Clary could not say, but almost of its own accord her hand lifted and her fingers met his cheek, gently tilting his head down even as she sensed his palms brush against her waistline. All she knew for certain was that kissing him before, wrong as it may have been, had far from satisfied her. Their single kiss coupled with his absence afterward had been driving her mad, though she knew the dangers of getting caught. But none of this felt wrong, even as he drew back from their latest embrace only to whirl her around and press her against the wall.

"Clary." There it was, her name the way only he could say it; soft and sweet on his lips as any kiss. Cliché as it was, that was all it took to chase away all her troubles and suddenly nothing mattered but him as their lips met hers once more, not as they had previously, all tentative tenderness but with more purpose and drive.

She could not fathom how anything other than good could come of being held like this, being touched like this. Her own palms slipped over his jawline, sliding over his face until her fingers were curling in the fine gold hair at the nape of his neck. For the first time Clary found herself understanding why disapproving older ladies condemned girls who 'forgot themselves' and their position. Like this it was finally possible to forget who and what they were. At this moment the warmth of the sun soaked wall at her back and the feverish heat of his body was pressing against hers was all she knew.

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

The hot day had faded into a warm dusk by the time Jonathan finally managed to secure an appointment with his father. Given the clammy conditions even after the lazy sun had set the casements on the windows of Valentine's chamber were open to allow in some meagre breath of air, through which the moth he currently surveyed must have entered.

Jonathan watched it, utterly unmoved as it flapped helplessly around the bobbing flame of the candle by the desk, reeling back occasionally as the pale wings were singed only to dart forward again a second later. Bored, the crown prince reached out and plucked it from the air, cupping it in his palms and musing at the mild tickling sensation of the feather-light wings battered against his closed fingers in what must have amounted to a frantic straggle to such a small creature.

"Jonathan" his father called, waving his clerk away and making his way over to the desk.

Absentmindedly, Jonathan clenched his fingers into a fist, crushing the fragile creature and dropping the prone body as he fell into the seat Valentine gestured toward, positioning himself on the other side of the desk. "Pangborn says you wished to see me? I wonder what matter so urgent it has not already reached my ears you wish to discuss." Trying his best to ignore the disinterested drawl and the fact that Valentine had already started to busy himself by flicking through the ledger already settled on his desk Jonathan tilted forward, eager to observe every second of the rage that was sure to follow his announcement. It was rare Valentine's anger was not directed at his heir and such a commodity of an occasion Jonathan was determined to relish.

"It is about Clary." The Prince paused for dramatic effect, burying a scowl that threatened to surface as his father's eyes leapt upwards, suddenly alight with interest at the mention of his sister. Not even torching those rebels had earned Jonathan much more than a brief glance, yet the mention of Clary's name alone was enough to capture Valentine's complete attention, attention that judging by His Majesty's suddenly intense curiosity, was not going to wane any time soon. "What of her?"

"I am concerned, Sire, at her-" Jonathan waved at the air in front of him as though the precisely delicate term he sought for was somehow floating there, "preoccupation? Nay, intimacy…" He let the final word linger, allowing all of its shady suggestiveness to sink in before continuing, "with the French Ambassador." The King allowed the book before him to flop closed, leaning back on his chair and raising his hand to his chin, pressing his forefinger against his lips thoughtfully. "I fear for her reputation my lord, not that she has sinned in deed of course!" Jonathan shrugged lightly, effectively throwing off his conviction as hastily as he had donned it, surely Valentine had seen Jace often enough with that little harlot of maid to know of his womanizing capacities. "But she is young, and new to court still so I fear her innocence is being manipulated to his own self-serving ends. I cannot stand by and allow her sweet naivety to be used thus Father." Throughout the whole pretty speech he was careful to lay the blame most firmly upon Herondale. Valentine would hear nothing against his dearest child, but this way he could disparage them both without saying a bad word about Clary. Jonathan could not help but feel proud of himself, if Clary wanted to pull the wool over Valentine's eyes and play the pure and holy maid then very well; he would use the conniving little bitch's own tactics against her.

Initially Valentine said nothing, seeming as unruffled as ever. Jonathan resisted the urge to hold his breath as he waited for the explosion of ire, or the snapped orders for that knave of a French envoy to be summoned or even a fuming exit.

None of his expectations came to pass, which was a recurring state of affairs Jonathan was truly sick of experiencing.

Instead the King chortled softy to himself dropping his hands to the armrest of his chair and tapping the ring of state against it meditatively as the grin slowly slipped from his face. "The two have grown close?" He asked it in much the same way as he grilled Starkweather about the realm's state of affairs, not sharply or loudly, but in a mild yet attentive tone that was nonetheless powerfully demanding. His son had seen enough of his interrogations over the years and been subjected to plenty as he grew up, often enough to know they were always like this. The realisation put him on his guard immediately, he felt like a child trying to get away with not having finished his schoolwork before he went out riding. "Yes. Enough that I and others have noticed. I have been informed that she banished the Lightwood girl from her chambers this morning for merely insinuating there was anything untoward between the two of them. It makes me fear that there is." The irritation running through his words was evident, but Jonathan found he no longer cared how he sounded; he needed to make Valentine see the urgency of this matter, "Unless we- you- put an end to this immediately the next person to note this could well have the surname Valois!"

"Yet surely" Valentine began smoothly, "If Monsieur Herondale was exploiting Clarissa the King of France would be aware of his own envoys tactics. He has employed the fellow for years as I understand it."

His complacency knocked Jonathan speechless. It was as if the King was not disturbed in the slightest at the prospect of his only daughter whoring herself out to an envoy, he even seemed to welcome the news. In fact he watched Jonathan now as he had watched the pair of them dancing hand-clasped, with that same appreciative smile he only ever wore when things were going precisely the way he wanted them to.

Tensed in his seat, the Crown prince forced his clenched jaw to loosen, "And so we condone it? We allow the French to pull the strings around us like we are Francois' puppets?!" His voice was undeniably spiked with temper, rising deplorably with each syllable, "Worse than that, we encourage and assist it! Bringing him on hunting trips, arranging for the two to share dances, what next? Shall we have a place set for him next to her at dinner? Truly, I doubt that 'seduce my prospective daughter in law' was an order the King of France issued!"

"And you think Clary fool enough to fall into the arms of the first man to look her way? I think you underestimate your sister."

"She did not grow up here as I did, so I think Clary fool enough not to realise the danger a Herondale poses. Especially to a Morgenstern girl, since the bastard is likely to shame her just to spite us!"

"Enough Jonathan." Valentine growled forcing his son to quiet, even as he visibly trembled with anger, sucking in a single calming breath which failed to sedate him even slightly, "But, Majesty-"

"I said enough." Valentine's voice never lifted, but the authority thrown behind the order increased. "God above" he muttered half to himself as Jonathan finally fell into a sullenly subdued silence, "Your mother certainly gifted you with her short temper."

It was so unusual for his father to willingly speak of his mother that Jonathan was rendered properly to silence, though he felt his shoulders involuntarily square. Jocelyn being in the King's thoughts never boded well. Valentine had loved the woman to distraction, to a degree that almost every lord on the council had hated her and strove to topple her, loathing the influence she had held over their king. Jonathan wondered what they would make of the knowledge that she still wielded a potent power over their monarch, even in her absence her son suspected she haunted every decision her estranged husband made. But he had never compared Jonathan to her before now, no one had. When people looked at him they saw an image of a young Valentine, based solely on their looks they commonly viewed Jonathan as his father's son and Clary as her mother's.

But Valentine was not going to dwell on the thought of his faraway spouse, Jonathan had been old enough at the time of her departure to remember that there had been an obvious distance between his parents even before there had been a physical one. He could also recall a nurse chiding him for referring to the queen in the past tense, reminding him the lady was not dead. He'd responded that he wished she were which had resulted in his being hauled before the King for one of the worst beatings he's ever had, thereafter between the two Morgenstern men Jocelyn had remained a sore point, and a fraught topic. Yet he still felt that way; had she died all those years then at least he would have been able to understand her long absence.

"So what _are_ you planning to do about Clary and the Herondale?"

"It grows late Jonathan" Valentine told him pointedly, emerging from his moment of reflection and from his seat, the previous question ignored. "And speaking of Clarissa, I have arranged to have supper with her."

"I take it my presence will not be required?" The Prince enquired snidely.

"Not on this occasion" Valentine confirmed without a backward glance, "in fact it seems that now would be the prime moment for you to return to your own lands. Since matters have now been settled in the south your presence in the north would serve well to prevent any discontent from spreading" he presented the notion of Jonathan returning this exile as though it were some shining solution, which he supposed to the King it was. That only fuelled the prince's stinging resentment as he watched Valentine hurry off to meet with his still untarnished daughter.

Argument was pointless with Valentine, certainly not when he deemed his heir's time at court to be up, as Jonathan had discovered long ago. Yet the futility of the situation did not make accepting it any easier. He felt his own fist curl back into a fist and in an effort to loosen the angry tension in his own body Jonathan rapped his knuckles against the smooth wood of the King's desk several times, finding the dull thud that came with each contact oddly soothing even as his flesh began to ache somewhat from the half-hearted blows.

It was then that he realised that in his haste to leave Valentine had left his son unattended in his chambers.

Jonathan supposed it was childish, the thrill he got from rifling through his father's things at any given opportunity, but it almost always procured him some delightful titbit of information and besides, if his father was not willing to tell him what was going on with Clary then he had no choice but to find out for himself.

 _-00000000000000000_ -

* * *

 ** _Roundstone Hall, eastern Lakelands, Mid July 1536_**

Dinner alone with her father was not the first thing that sprang to Clary's mind when she contemplated treats or even a fun evening. Between the preparations and the meal itself she was so stressed that he began to wonder if her hair would be grey by the time the plates were cleared. She wondered what exactly she was here for. She knew such privacy with the King was a huge honour and that His Majesty was not in the habit of granting empty honours, but she could not for the life of her think what exactly she had done to deserve such favour, she only knew that they were not sipping the cellar's finest malmsey here to bond. Knowing what he had done to the people at Oldcastle she could barely look him in the eye, seeing only corpses and ashes in his face. It was difficult to stomach the rich food with the knowledge of what he had done to his own aggrieved subjects resting like a deadweight in her gut. Valentine was no longer content with starving them and clearly refused to see the danger he was creating in keeping them so downtrodden.

Maia had suggested that he merely sought to congratulate her on the running of the court in his absence but Clary felt she knew her kin better than that, it would take something extraordinary for her to capture her father's attention let alone his congratulations. She was sure she could have decoded it with Isabelle but the two girls were still not speaking and she had not seen her friend in days. If Isabelle was not going to apologise then Clary was certainly not going to surrender.

Currently the final course was laid before them and Valentine plucked a sugared fruit off the table raising it to his mouth but pausing before he ate it. "I have some glad tidings, Clarissa."

"Oh?" Clary disguised her unease with a smile as best she could, helping herself to the sweetmeats. Valentine dismissed the serving boy topping up their glasses and leaned towards Clary, swallowing his sweet. "Jonathan tells me you have developed a liking for the French ambassador."

The remark struck her like a stone to the head (a sensation she knew all too well and would not recommend to anyone) and made her wonder if the venison she had just consumed was going to resurface. Surely not even Valentine Morgenstern could sit there smiling at her and nibbling desserts if he knew, if he even suspected-

As unruffled as ever the King daubed his fingers on his napkin, not looking at her, "I am glad to hear it."

Dropping her trembling hands under the table Clary tucked her shaking fingers in her long sleeves and pasted a bland smile to her face. "How so?" she choked out past her dry mouth.

"You will have need of a friend in France soon. Very soon, please God."

His meaning initially escaped her, focused as she was on fearing for herself and Jace and the danger that may face them. She was so preoccupied with what the repercussions of what their hasty kisses could be that _s_ he was utterly oblivious that doomsday had finally arrived.

"I have arranged a marriage for you, or rather I have reached an understanding with the King of France and soon we shall begin negotiations in earnest."

"The King of France?"

"Oh yes, my daughter. You are to marry the Dauphin."

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

 _ **A/N: It's nice being able to write about heat waves when you're surrounded by snow. This is also the part where I express a hope that you all had a happy and peaceful Christmas/Holidays and hold off on wishing a Happy New Year because I am determined to upload again before the end of the week. *crosses fingers* Until then...** _


	13. Masks

**A/N: What can I say, I am what Magnus and Alec's neighbour might call 'a lying liar who lies.' So here's the update that was promised and not delivered on time. *slap on the wrist for me*. Oops. However we are coming to a turning point here. The next few chapters will see us (hopefully-providing Mrs potatohead/yours truly gets her proverbial together) picking up the pace a little...**

 **NB: Just to prevent any mild confusion, the first few sections of this chapter pick up right where the last one ended, then there is a short time skip :)**

* * *

 _Masks_

Because the King's dinner was the kitchen's priority he had been the first to dine and it was not hard for Clary to corner Jace on a staircase on his way to the hall for his own meal. Striding towards him she felt her stomach clenching and her whirling thoughts whip up into a real tempest. He still looked unreasonably attractive, all in a black which contrary to making him look drab or dull brought out the gold of his hair and eyes and somehow made him seem brighter. He glanced up at her hurried approach, expression tightening into the guarded, wary and to the ignorant eye utterly impassive mask as he took stock of the girls behind her.

"Leave us" she snapped at Helen and Aline from where they scurried a few paces behind in her train, struggling to keep up with their impatient mistress. Wordlessly the duo exchanged a single look before falling back and disappearing. She knew they would not have gone far, simply a discreet distance out of sight and what she had to hope was out of earshot. Really leaving the young princess alone with the man she had 'developed a liking for' was not acceptable, but since Clary's lips remained sealed on the goings on between those two particular ladies, the other side of the bargain had to be fulfilled.

Now Clary's focus was entirely trained on the unmoving Jace before her, whose expression had yet to warm as it customarily would have. Undoubtedly he knew all that had just transpired, his suspicions only solidifying as after a brief hesitation Jace dropped his head and moved to bow. The Princess's hand shot out to halt him immediately, "You need not trouble yourself with any of that. We are somewhat past pretences of modesty and propriety, are we not?"

Jace's eyes and brows shot up as he straightened, towering over her despite their being stationed on the same step, seemingly wounded by her sharp tone.

"No need to look at me like that either! You are to be congratulated, sir, on your uncanny work. A second to none performance, truly."

"Performance? Clary I-"

The King had expressly forbidden her from announcing the glad tidings to anyone as of yet, but evidently what she was about to say would come as no surprise to the envoy before her, it was _his_ doing as much as it was Valentine's. "I am to be Dauphine!" she all but shrieked at him, "But you knew that, did you not? Days ago, weeks ago, I'd wager!"

Comprehension splashed fully across Jace's features and he made to speak but Clary was relentless, tearing on viciously and praying her blows landed, "My father has just informed me of his plans, plans which he has not concocted overnight I can assure you. I know you have been laying plots with him and then coming to me to talk of books and music, anything at all that would keep me in the dark! Well you have done it all extraordinarily. The game is concluded and it seems the best man won! You have played your cards expertly from the very start, with the clashes and the apology- as for the rescue – well, you certainly turned that one to your advantage like a true expert."

The weighty gold crucifix at her throat thumped into the base of her throat with the gulping breath she yanked in before continuing. "You had me then and by God you knew it. Letting me make you all the powerful friends you needed, all but handing you your victory. All of which was impressive, but you are after all a gambling man, and so came the kiss: a real stroke of genius! You caught the silly, hapless maid and played me as your ace, for this past week my head has been so full of it that my interfering has ceased. And my avoiding my father handed you the reins so you might steer your venture home, off on a hunting trip where your quarry was not the deer but the King." Clary took a few staggering steps backwards, tripping over her own hem but not her words, lobbing each one at him doused in bitterness, "Ah, you have caught him too Herondale, better than you could have ever hoped for." She opened her arms, stretching them wide on either side of her shoulders, eager to convey that Jace Herondale could never again hope to fall into them, "So here is your triumph, _Excellence,_ your seal of success as a diplomat. For you truly are the most cunning, ruthless man to head an embassy. I suggest you enjoy your victory while you can!" She cried, refraining from striking him with her hands only because she knew her words would wound him more, "For if you imagine I cannot play the game myself you are wrong. Most wrong. On the contrary I am primed for the next round and I can assure you I have had the most accomplished of tutors."

She whirled around then, set to storm away only to be stopped by Jace's hand catching her elbow, "Clary please! That is not how it was, I promise you! No, I beg of you. Listen to me!"

"Why should I?" she flung back, tugging herself free of his grasp. Jace hurried to block her ascent and grasped her shoulders this time, turning her to face him.

"I can see why you would not. But please, I have given you reason to trust me in the past, have I not? I can explain. You may well find that explanation inadequate, but so be it. I know you are wise enough to make up your own mind, and I will give you leave to think of me what you will, if only you will hear me first."

Clary paused, tempted to barge past him to the safety of her rooms and ignore the honeyed poison he would drip in her ears.

Yet he was right, he had given her reason to trust him and she knew that the King had spoken true, she and Jace Herondale would be seeing a lot of one another in the future. Besides, having already quarrelled with Isabelle she should not cast out another friend. She nodded her assent briskly, still glaring at the ambassador furiously, "Very well. Speak. I will not be listening for very long."

Jace's shoulders lifted as he dragged in a few composing breaths,"Yes, His Majesty told me on the night of the Prince's birthday that he was inclined to give you to the Dauphin, and later told me before the hunt that he would indeed have you marry Francois. But he made no move towards bringing it about and made no announcements so I began to doubt his intentions, I had only his word to go on. Knowing the King I half expected him to have told all the envoys the same thing. Then during the hunting trip I began writing to King Francois on your father's behalf and the understanding was only confirmed yesterday. So I kept what he had told me to myself, not even Alec and Isabelle knew of the agreement until today.

'On the night of Jonathan's birthday, the night I first kissed you…in truth I know not why exactly I did that." He swallowed uncertainly, looking at her with a new fervency, as though he could will her into believing and forgiving him. He shrugged vaguely, "I had just had a particularly intense discussion with His Majesty, who had just told me he wanted to betroth you to the Dauphin, and I suppose you had just told me of how your marriage would mean the loss of everything that had been a part of your previous life so I realised that I could well be a part of that. You were going to become Francois' and I wanted- just once- to have you first. To have you once, before you became his and I lost you forever." He did move to release her then, loosening his grasp and sliding his left hand down her arm until it reached hers and their fingers tangled together, his eyes falling there too and he pointedly addressed them the next time he spoke. "But now you are gone and I know I must leave you be. I understand that now. It would be wrong-worse- perilous for any of this continue. It has already gone too far."

His words fell into an astounded silence. Clary half laughed, half sighed at his admission and realised that he had spoken true. Her old playmate and friend would indeed be lost to her forever on her wedding day. After that she would be the next queen of France and he would be first and foremost her subject and servant. And so she ought to say goodbye, to accept that now the end had come and that continuing to have anything beyond a working relationship with him would bring a new layer of danger upon them both. She was the property of one more powerful man and the precious daughter of two Kings while he remained an ambassador.

Instead she stepped forward, moved further into his arms and she lifted her head to survey him properly. "And yet you are not, I see, letting me go," she pointed out quietly, her voice just above a whisper.

"No." Jace agreed and she was stunned to note he was trembling slightly. "I have failed in every other attempt to untangle myself from you."

"But you have won" Clary stated, snapping the words at him in spite of their being so close, "You may stop pretending now."

Jace still held her tight, stepping forward as she made to retreat so there remained hardly any distance between them. "You wish for me to cease the pretence?" There was a warning undertone to his low growl, yet there lingered almost a kind of plea within his question too.

"Yes" she tried to tell him firmly, aware that even as she did so he still did not loosen his hold, rather his free arm slipped down from her shoulder, slowly sliding along her length in a way that almost set her own limbs atremble.

"Good" he laughed breathlessly, with no serious mirth as he lowered his head. Lips brushed her brow and skimmed her nose as they made their downward journey and already Clary's heart was beating fast in anticipation of what was to come. If any part of her recalled they were on a staircase where anyone could come upon them at any moment it was dismissed.

She had not imagined to forgive Jace so easily, in fact she had not been inclined to forgive him at all but she found herself trusting in the way he held her now. It was only as they hastily and clumsily pulled apart at the sound of a not so distant footfall that she remembered what they had been doing here in the first place. Jace was the first to recollect his wits, steering her before him as they bolted into the first shady alcove they could find.

"This too ought to cease," he breathed in her ear once they were stowed away in relative safety. Clary nipped at her own tongue to quell a giggle and dared peek up at him. They snorted and shuddered with their laughter as the mystery footsteps faded away, through some mercy the two remained undetected despite their not altogether soundless merriment. When the danger had passed however, Clary was left with no choice but to step away again, turning reluctantly to him. "I must go, my ladies are waiting."

Jace's grin drooped and his eyes flickered away, "How am I to do this?"

"We will think of something" Clary tried to reassure him, suddenly petrified that they had only reconciled to part decisively, "There are the gardens, the boathouse…"

"You are the Princess of Idris, Clary. You cannot go creeping around the grounds with a servant."

"You are not my servant," she protested petulantly.

"Exactly" he said it softly yet dully, slowly shaking his head, "It is worse than that, I am your soon-to-be-husband's servant."

Clary made a faint attempt to lighten the mood, "For now. You shall not be anyone's servant for long. I believe a knighthood and some chateau's were promised?"

Jace did not smile, "In which case I will remain the French King's subject. Gardens will only suffice for now, as well you know. This-" he gestured between them forlornly "Cannot continue when we reach France. You will be a wife then. Francois' wife." Now he did laugh, though it was bitter as a lemon and brittle as glass, "Because I gave you to him."

The irony was far from lost on Clary, "My father is the one who gave me to Francois."

"But neither you nor I will ever be able to forget that he does so at my behest."

* * *

 ** _Roundstone Hall, South-eastern Lakelands, Idris, Early August 1536_**

Once again, the early afternoon found Isabelle Lightwood unspeakably bored. She sat on the window sill, shoes discarded long ago and white stocking-clad feet planted on the sill before her, one of Jace's detestable books open in her lap. She had also discarded the possibility of reading long ago, with her Latin being nothing remarkable and what contents she could understand failing to evoke anything beyond a bemused apathy.

She had only thought she had been bored before.

Although the book remained balanced on her knees her eyes were fixed on the pearl and emerald ring that she currently twisted around her finger, watching the stones catch the light and fade again as she continued her rotation. It had been a gift from her father on her recent seventeenth birthday earlier in the spring, a shameless bid to win her silence in the wake of her discovering his whore and perhaps reclaim her affection. Robert had not succeeded on either count, though Isabelle had kept the ring and continued to wear it, simply because it was one of the few pieces of jewellery in her possession she truly liked and because she considered it no less than she deserved, putting up with her father in the ways she did.

As for the book itself, Jace had behaved as though his lending it had been some sort of great favour or exhibition of trust, which in itself was laughable. Her parents had seen to it she was educated, but her father had seen no reason for that education to be on the same plane as her brothers. She was ultimately a woman, and it would be unseemly (and unnecessarily costly) for her to be as learned as a boy. Isabelle had been more carefully drilled in the arts of needlework, dancing and governing a household: the finely honed skills that would be of benefit to a husband. She resented it sometimes, not being able to keep up with the conversations Jace and Alec had about this philosopher or that theologian. She was particularly envious of Clary who, despite being a girl as she was, could lose herself in a book at the drop of a hat, chatter away in a litany of tongues and hold her own in any debate, even against Jace.

She was far from stupid, Isabelle knew that there were many types of intelligence and that she was clever in ways beyond books. She could navigate a cut-throat court with ease- in France she had been an almost unparalleled schemer and with a few carefully chosen words and her prettiest smile she could have some of the most powerful men in the land eating out of her palm in seconds.

Her mother had demanded with exasperation on more than one occasion after Isabelle had sent yet another 'perfectly good' suitor on his merry way "have you no ambition?" On the contrary, the young Lady Lightwood had plenty of ambition, which was one of the chief reasons she had no intention of marrying. She enjoyed her pastimes of plotting and flirting, she liked being at liberty to dance with whoever she chose and tease legions of nobles with the notion of her hand, it was what gave her what little power she had. All of which would have to end the moment she uttered the marriage vows.

There were other, deeper reasons for her dragging out her own journey to the alter, of course. Not the least of which was making her own journey to matrimony as long and difficult as possible to prevent her father finding a bride for Alec.

Just as she thought of him her elder brother announced himself with as swift knock on the door and entered the room, pausing on the threshold to fix a disapproving look on his younger sibling, "Really Isabelle?"

"Come now" Izzy tutted dryly, rubbing her fingertip against the glass of the windowpane idly, "This cannot be the most compromising position you have found me in." Alec chose tactfully to ignore the last comment, "But in a window? Where anyone can see you?"

"No one is looking for me."

Her brother crossed the room and held out his arms to her, "I am. Please come down Izzy. I need to speak with you."

With exaggerated reluctance Isabelle swung her legs down and leapt nimbly to the floor, steadying herself with Alec's proffered arm. "Of what?"

"Jace. I am worried about him."

Isabelle rolled her eyes at the admission,"You say that as though it is not perpetually the case."

"More so than usual" Alec qualified gruffly, "Even more than I worry about you at present, though that should not be possible."

Isabelle smiled, lifting herself onto her bare tip-toes to press a kiss to Alec's forehead. She was tall for a girl and the manoeuvre did not require much stretching as her brother stood just a head above her.

Alec flushed at her expression of affection and drew away, "I am serious Isabelle"

"I know. But it is my intention to have you grey haired by the time you are thirty. I merely wanted to check my progress" she made a show of straining upward again to inspect the top of his head.

"By God, you are succeeding. Though you cannot claim all the credit; we were talking of Jace."

"Yes," Isabelle flopped down into the nearest chair, "Dare I ask what has spawned this latest bout of fretting?"

"This kingdom, this court," Alec muttered, folding his arms and turning away from her as he began to pace, "I like not what it does to him."

"And what does it do to him?" Izzy enquired, plucking his book off the floor from where it must have fallen when she had moved, before the man in question could burst into the room and murder her for its mistreatment.

"It is changing him. I fear not for the better."

Isabelle refrained from pointing out that Idris had changed all of them. "Well of course this embassy was going to be different from the others," she tried to soothe with reason, "We are dealing with the man who had his father's head chopped off to begin with. Then consider he also had Jace beaten black and blue as a child as you and I both well know, for we each saw the bruises when he arrived at Adamant."

Alec glanced at the tightly shut door before drawing closer and lowering his voice to spit out, "Yes but it is not just Valentine. It's _her_."

There was only one 'her' in these rooms. Isabelle blinked, trying to collect her thoughts before continuing, "Alec-"

"Do not try and tell me this is nothing, that I am worrying about nothing. You saw them dance as plainly as I did, you have seen them together in the same ways I have. And as for what happened between the two of you, if she really lost her temper over the mere _suggestion_ …This is anything but nothing."

"Jace is no fool," Isabelle told her brother dryly, "And neither is she."

"He's a fool for her."

Isabelle tugged idly at the lace of her undersleeves, careful not to look Alec directly in the eye. Being shut up in her chambers did not mean that she was not abreast of all that was happening in the Princess' rooms. Since Simon was still strumming and contrary to her threats Clary had made Helen and Aline her bosom companions rather than court pariahs, Isabelle found that she wanted to do some protecting of her own. Clearly she owed it to the Morgenstern girl. More than that, unless she could get herself reinstated in Clary's train she would be served a dismissal and would have no other option but to return to Adamant. For all her bluster, Isabelle took her father at his word when he claimed that this position was her last chance. After this, if she refused to budge on her defiance of wedlock there was only one other honourable option for a girl: the nunnery.

"What if you have it wrong? What if she's a fool for him, and that is his game? Because it is working, she's going to be Dauphine."

"Indeed and how long has that been in the works? And not a word did he breathe to either of us!" Alec strode away again, and Isabelle anxiously watched him move back and forth like an irritated pendulum. "He has started keeping secrets, which he never did before."

"And you are open in all matters with him?"

Alec shot her a withering look before pressing on, "I do not believe that this is a strategy, this is not how he plays the game."

"This embassy is not like the others" Isabelle repeated firmly. She could tell she was starting to wear his doubts away, even as his frantic blue eyes skidded back to hers. For fear he would see through her Isabelle fixed her gaze back on the book she held, pointedly beginning to flip nonchalantly through the pages. "And I know Jace can be that ruthless. I suppose Valentine Morgenstern taught him that. He has always had the capacity, just never the inclination." _Which is no longer applicable to Valentine Morgenstern's daughter now is it?"_ She deliberately left her implication unsaid, as her pointed silences were already doing wonders.

Alec rubbed his wrists, which must have ached from his frantic wringing. She watched his throat bob as he swallowed, clearly trying to make sense of what she had told him and align it with what he had presupposed.

"She will fall in love with him, if she already hasn't. They always do." He snapped out of his musings as quickly as he had fallen to them, whirling round to face his sister once again, "Where the devil is he anyway? I hoped to find him here with you."

Isabelle shrugged and tried to continue appearing unconcerned. "Jace will be a busy man for the foreseeable future. He will have to hammer out the finer points of the betrothal contract to make it as agreeable as possible for both monarchs."

Alec nodded eventually. "True, but if that were the case surely he would at least have consulted me! Even if my opinion was not wanted I would have expected him to at the very least keep me abreast of matters! Sat here ignorant I am about as useful as.. as-"

"A girl?" Isabelle offered tartly.

Alec clicked his tongue, dropping his hands to the armrests of her chair and leaning over her heard, which Isabelle obstinately refused to lift, "More like about as useful as a girl who is spending her days in useless and needless idleness out of sheer stubbornness. If you really wanted to put your dear brother's mind at ease you could swallow your pride, apologize to the Princess and start pulling your weight on this embassy. You are supposed to be our eyes and ears in those rooms, remember?"

Isabelle scowled up at him, "Do not try to divert me. I was wronged, not the wrongdoer and I am not going to get down on my knees and grovel when I bear no fault."

In response Alec threw his head back and sighed loudly, raising his hands to tug at his as-of-yet black hair. "Sister, it matters not who was wronged, not when it is with royalty you dispute. She is a royal, and therefore you would do well not to gainsay her. If she feels slighted then go and make amends."

"Well if you must know, I have procured the help of an intermediary I do not want."

Alec narrowed his eyes at her, "The Prince?"

"No! Do not be ridiculous!"

"It is not so ridiculous to my eyes. He has a liking for you." Her brother did not sound as judgmental as she would have presumed, more puzzled and (as could always be expected) troubled, "One you make no real effort to discourage."

"I have returned the gifts!" She was not lying, each and every one the regular jewel bearing pages that had marched through her door had been promptly marched back out again. "And I pull disapproving faces when I feel him looking at me, I even take pains to avoid him and any notes that slip into my lap go hastily on a one way journey to the nearest fire. Seal unbroken. What is that if not discouragement?"

"He is a Prince, Izzy. I daresay he has never been told no in his life before and he will not hear it now. As far as he is concerned a lady's refusal means 'persuade me.'"

Izzy shook her head decisively, "I am not discussing any of this with you. We were finally making headway on Jace." Still, Isabelle could not say what it was precisely that had her holding the tongue and defending Clary's secret. She had practice hiding things and warping truths, but she had never tried to exercise her expertise on Alec, for fear that he knew her too well. Beyond that, she as not sure why she was felt such a powerful need to keep him in the dark now, but somehow she got the distinct feeling that the best way to keep everyone here safe was to conceal her suspicions about Clary and Jace for now. Even if he was aware and tried to put an end to it, there was little chance of success. Jace would defy his orders to forget about her and there was no way Alec would ever go any further to try and stop it. He would never sell his best friend out to the King.

Since she was personally so well acquainted with the sensation of smothering helplessness, Isabelle would not wish it on anyone, certainly not the brother she adored. "If he is not involving you and I then he must have his reasons. The real question here Alec how much you trust him."

"I trust him with my life" her brother insisted staunchly, moving over to the window and dropping his elbows against the sill as he leaned forward and stared out. With his face tilted away from her Isabelle just about heard his muttered conclusion, "Just not with his."

Before she got the chance to comment Simon Lewis was bursting into her chambers with his usual subtly, or utter lack thereof.

"Iz!" he caught sight of Alec and stopped himself just in the nick of time "I mean- my lady."

Yet even with the young lord glowering at him from the corner Simon could not contain his smile, "The Princess desires your presence this evening."

* * *

She hated it when Simon was right. But he had badgered her, even ambushing her on her afternoon walk yesterday. It really had been a masterful tactic, though he had no idea of that, but she had just been on her way to meet Jace again and his appearance just a few moments from a disaster had her shocked to a vulnerable state.

" _It is about Isabelle."_

" _Dear God, declaring your intentions already?"_

 _Simon was not amused, "Of course not."_

" _Oh good, because I do not want the task of letting you down gently when she sends me back to you with a refusal. She's not inclined to marry anybody. Besides, she has no idea that I even know of your courtship."_

" _Stop calling it that," Simon insisted, growing rather touchingly flustered, "She is not my sweetheart."_

" _Ah you kiss all your friends do you?"_

" _Well, if we are to be completely honest, since you are my only friend and we have kissed I suppose that is true. And that is partly the issue, not that no one knows of it per se…"_

"S _omeone does know of it," Clary interrupted, her frayed nerves irritated, "I know of it. And far too much of it for a supposedly secret relationship. For instance, I now know that you have kissed her."_

 _Simon swore, "Why did I ever tell you a damn thing in the first place?!"_

" _Well, to be fair to you I was not told so much as I discovered it. You never could hide anything from me." She concluded with fondness despite herself and her impatience to disengage with this conversation and hurry to where a certain golden haired ambassador was waiting for her._

" _And you never could hide anything from me," her friend had declared solemnly. Filled as her thoughts were of Jace it was inevitable that the words would flood her with panic. Despite the fact she was still unsure precisely where she stood with Jace, she was already treading on eggshells as it was with an official announcement of her betrothal not far off and it was simply far too dangerous for anyone else to know. The few kisses and embraces they had shared were too many._

" _I know that you miss her. I know that you feel vulnerable without her."_

" _Wait, what?"_

" _Isabelle?" Simon spread his arms before him in confusion, "She has been the only topic in this conversation Clary, it is concerning that you are struggling to keep up."_

" _No, yes- of course," Clary forced herself to take in a breath and not glance towards the water gate. "Pray continue."_

" _I understand. I do, it is difficult to live in such close conditions and see the same faces each day, many of whom you do not even like, but Isabelle you do like. You feel better when she is around, as nothing the day may throw at you cannot be tackled with her at your side. Her bravery, that fierce confidence of hers, it makes you want to be brave too._

' _I also know that she has been missing you. The two of you sparked off one another, found humour in the same things. She is going out of her mind being confined to her chambers with nothing to do, especially with me at work and her brother busier than ever on his embassy these days." He offered a conciliatory, hopeful smile, "Besides surely now that you have a party to plan you are sure to find you need her. She dreads to think what you might don without her guidance."_

 _That was true, with her birthday celebrations looming at the end of the week His Majesty was insistent she celebrate her entrance into her sixteenth year appropriately. It seemed that with matters proceeding nicely as regards her marriage Valentine was indeed feeling celebratory. And Simon also spoke true about Isabelle, Clary did miss having her around and felt guilty about planning the gowns and revels without her. At that particular moment however, her thoughts were primarily on Jace. "Yes Simon, you are right."_

 _Her friend blinked several times, "That was-easy?"_

" _Indeed." Clary had agreed hastily, fearing that if she tarried much longer Jace would give up on her and leave. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have somewhere important to be."_

" _Somewhere important? Clary you are wandering aimlessly around the summer gardens."_

 _The Princess mentally cursed and set about beating herself in her own mind, "Yes." She ground out past gritted teeth, "That is precisely what I am doing."_

 _Thankfully, Simon grew cross rather than suspicious, "Don't think that because you are a royal now you can brush this off. You are not above me, those are your own words, remember? None of this is going to disappear of you ignore it."_

" _No, of course not!" Clary had cried, growing panicked again and narrowly resisting the urge to throttle the well-meaning, devoted boy before her, "So.." her mind began working furiously as she protracted the word, "You should go from here, at once, to find Isabelle and tell her that I will receive her in my privy chamber after supper, just the two of us; so that we can end this disagreement once and for all."_

So here they were, in the second week of their restored relative harmony, choosing costumes. Even with all that had happened and all that seemed likely to happen, Clary was relishing the opportunity to let go of it all and live in the moment. She could even acknowledge that she was looking forward to her birthday celebrations, which she had decided to plan as a masked ball centred around the theme of Greek gods and heroes. Best of all, she doubted the reference would be lost on Jace.

Her good mood was lifted further by her brother's departure from court. Since he was to stay in the north indefinitely and Clary would be journeying to France in the not so distant future, their paths could very well never cross again. The Princess drew significant comfort from that, though she was momentarily distracted by the golden mask Isabelle was passing to her.

"Aphrodite?" she enquired tracing the silken tie on the mask with her forefinger, "You really ought to. It would suit you."

To her surprise her friend shook her head. "Oh no! I meant for you."

"Me?" Clary echoed before dissolving into laughter, "Ridiculous!"

"Oh but it would suit you so well," Izzy grinned at her friend mischievously, "Besides you speak so eloquently on the beauty of red hair! You were telling me not so long ago of some painting in which Aphrodite had a head full of flaming locks."

"The Botticelli." Clary conceded grimly, before edging into affront, "Which is not some painting! In any event, I had thought to go as Hera, since I am so soon to be wed, and after that a queen."

Isabelle rolled her eyes, flopping down on the corner of Clary's bed and holding up another mask to inspect it in the light. "Do not be dull. You shall be married until the end of your days and that will provide you with plenty of opportunities to play Hera. But this is one of the last occasions on which you will just be Clarissa Morgenstern, the sweetheart of her father's court and the most precious centrepiece in a court of beautiful girls."

"None more beautiful than you." Clary attempted to insist and pass the gilded facemask back.

Isabelle stared up at her lazily, "Do not doubt my ability to make you beautiful Clary."

"I would not dare" Clary giggled, leaning against the bedpost, blowing the edge of the fringed velvet curtain out of her face, "Though I do dare claim that most of the girls currently sewing shirts for the poor in my outer chamber would kill to be Aphrodite."

"All the more reason for you to claim it. Whoever else gets the coveted prize is likely to be maimed in retaliation by her jealous rivals," she dropped her voice to a dramatic whisper, "Perhaps only you can do it and live."

"You really do have a touch for the melodramatic."

"It is sweet that you think I exaggerate." She rolled onto her side languidly and propped herself up on her elbow, "Nonetheless, you should be our Aphrodite, if not for beauty then for love." Her antics melted away and she stared up at Clary with a probing dark scrutiny, "You are in love, are you not?"

Just when she thought she had the measure of Isabelle Lightwood the other girl managed to surprise her without fail. "Wh-What?" It was nothing short of a natural phenomenon, that Clary could actually make her lips move and squeeze words from her throat.

"Oh you heard me. I've noticed, even Alec has noticed-"

Clary cut her off in one last attempt to salvage the situation, "Of course, you think me a fool for being the besotted bride but despite myself I do hope for love in a marriage of convenience and after all you and others have told me of Francois.." she was prattling on unforgivably, each word airier than the last and even through her breathless babbling it was evident that not a single word she spoke had any substance.

"I am not even slightly convinced Clarissa."

"Not even a little bit?"

Isabelle shook her head slowly though he expression was not one of distaste or disappointment. "I really ought to warn you to guard your heart, or give you a lecture on how irresponsible you've been or even perhaps forbid you from seeing him again. But I am not your mother Clary and I doubt there is anything I could say that would dissuade you. Even if I did try you'd be the first to point out how hypocritical I am since I am the one meeting a musician in darkened corners, for God's sake."

"True."

"And those are just the practicalities. I am not inclined to intervene on a personal level either. We're women" she poured a general helping of empathy into the words, "We don't get anything to call our own, not particularly. Technically speaking we don't even own the clothes on our own backs, as whatever it is we believe we possess legally belongs to our husbands or fathers. Worse than that you are a royal woman, and in the little time I've known you Clary I get the distinct sense that there has scarce been a moment in your life that hasn't been dictated for you. Even with your mother it seems there has always been a strict routine. So I have no intention of taking this away from you."

"I have one thing, my reputation. And I should have a care with it since I am to be married."

What should have soothed her fears stoked them even further. Though she had not properly realised until this moment she had rather been hoping someone (anyone other than her father) would learn of what was going on and put an end to it, in her mind only the kindly intervention of someone like Simon or Izzy or even Luke would see a favourable outcome. She knew it had to end, she knew the consequences of discovery, or worse, infidelity and she knew she did not have the nerve to court such disaster. But she could not bring herself to let Jace go.

And Isabelle understood, "That above all things should make me want to put an end to this folly. Yet it does not. Instead that is what persuades me to let it continue. God knows you will never have your freedom again, and should you find that you don't love your husband then this will be the one and only chance you have to act on love. So long as you do not get caught doing so." Isabelle gave her a rueful half smile and even though her life seemed full of flux of late Clary was all at once indescribably grateful that she had Isabelle in it.

She was even glad of what had caused their fight in the first place, she was so glad that someone else knew what was in her heart. Though she was sure the other girl would not thank her for it, Clary was suddenly filled with the longing to fling her arms around her. Beating down the urge she instead threw herself down on the bed beside Izzy and stared up at the now familiar tester and did her best to voice all she was feeling.

Isabelle laughed softly dropping her hand to the young Princess' and squeezed her fingers gently. "Well I am happy to help. Truly. Try not to think too highly of yourself however, I am doing this for Jace too. I think this country has always had a hold on him, even though he does not realise it. I think we were always meant to come here, to meet you."

"Don't tell me you believe in fate Isabelle Lightwood!"

The other girl only snorted in response, "Well he is growing up, I suppose. Jace that is. I think he may have had to come home in order to do that, and you are a part of all this. You bring out the best in him Clary. Which is what worries Alec so much. For the day that Jace properly grows up, the day he stops being the impetuous and irresponsible boy that needs Alec to watch over him is the day he does not need Alec. And Alec so needs Jace to need him." She concluded with a mild sigh, before letting her focus dart back to the previous line of conversation, "Well, since you are aware that we Lightwoods all need each other, and now that you have turned Jace's head Clarissa Morgenstern do not be the cause of his losing it." A light, teasing laugh sprang from her friend then, "Is it any wonder I am determined not to wed and fill a nursery, when these brothers of mine take more looking after than any infants. If for no other reason than to ensure the two of you don't get caught I will assist."

Clary could hardly believe what she was hearing, for the second time in the space of a half hour Isabelle rendered her speechless. She tipped her head to the side, "Do you mean that Iz?"

Isabelle turned to face her and nodded slowly, then the playful sparkle sprang back into her eyes, "On two conditions."

"Oh?"

"The first: I want you to promise something in turn. Promise me that when we do go to France you will keep me with you. Please do not make me go back to Adamant Clary." In all the months she had known her, Clary had never heard the other girl beg for anything, and hearing her do so now was a humbling experience. It was like watching the Sphinx bow.

"That was a forgone conclusion. I need you Isabelle, now and always." A little smile glimmered on her face once more, "You are the only girl I know that I can call friend. Even if we bicker like France and Spain occasionally, I will always want you as the first of my ladies." Then with more wariness, "But what is your second request?"

Instead of replying Isabelle pushed herself upwards to a sitting position, her vermillion velvet skirts rustling at the movement. Before Clary could adjust her position to join her the flimsy golden mask was falling back onto her chest. "Let me make you beautiful" Isabelle murmured, sarcastically seductive. Clary chuckled by way of response, "But if I am to be Aphrodite, then who will you be?"

Isabelle dropped back down on the mattress by her side, "Since I am the fair maiden that all the gentlemen pursue…" With a deft flourish she raised a fine silver mask to cover her upper face, "Artemis, virgin goddess of the hunt." The two girls exchanged a single glance before falling to frantic laughter.

Though in a matter of days she would be sixteen, this very moment as she lay on her own oversized bed and laughing with her best friend beside her would be one of the very few times in her life Clary Morgenstern would be able to act her age.

* * *

These days a swift rap on his door was a sure way to put Jace Herondale's heart rate up a notch.

Best case scenario, it was a scribbled note from Clary to arrange a rendezvous and the imminent future held a kiss, and worst case scenario it was an armed guard and the imminent future held a brief recess in the Gard and the next kiss he'd get would be from a freshly sharpened axe. Tonight he had no expectation of being able to meet Clary, all the court nobles would be assembling in the great hall for the second royal birthday of the summer and because this particular event was taking place in Clary's honour there would be no chance for her to slip away to see him.

Jace, the lowly ambassador, had not been invited. Apparently it was because for just one night the Princess was to be freed of the constant reminder of her impending marriage that Jace was sure to be. Moreover, if Clary was anything like her brother she could well be a touch too free with her given liberty; celebrating Morgensterns were known to drink over their might on such occasions, and Valentine had attempted to ensure no reports of anything less than irreproachable behaviour reached the French King's ear. Not that one bout of drunkenness would have the betrothal called off, since Valentine was providing a generous enough dowry to ensure it would take one hell of a scandal to break the deal, but Clary would not be arriving in in France with anything less than an impeccable record if her father could help it.

Even with a charge of treason the more likely possibility Jace doubted a refusal to open the door would keep a soldier with an arrest warrant out for very long, so he steeled himself, hurried across to the door and threw it open.

Fortunately for Jace, but unfortunately for the common populace of Alicante who were particularly devoid of entertainment and for whom an execution proved an exciting outing for all the family, waiting for him on the other side of the threshold were the two eldest Blackthorns.

Helen's presence was nothing remarkable as she was frequently the courier of correspondence between the illicit couple, but up until now Jace had spoken a grand total of around five words to her brother and was by no means a trusted friend. So what brought him to Jace's door, less than an hour before the Princess's birthday celebrations were due to commence Jace failed to comprehend. In fact his incomprehension left them in a state of stilted silence, peering at each other with nervous suspicion until Helen finally intervened.

"Good evening," she chirped, "Might we come in?"

Jace quickly mumbled his assent, stepping back in order to allow the duo into his humble quarters, closing the door with a marked click behind him. The two Blackthorns stood awkwardly in the centre of his room, Helen tugging distractedly at the bronze fringing on her flowing gown. Jace realised for the first time she was dressed for the party, in the pale green and loose sleeved, high belted chemise-like dress with a bronze mask currently awaiting adjustment on her brow. She was Demeter, her realised at last, goddess of the harvest whose daughter's return saw the arrival of summer. It was a good match, she was after all the daughter of the Duke who ruled the mild weathered, fertile southern lands and it was her reunion with her family on these estates during the progress that brought the court summer. All this considered, the copper scythe nestled in her wheat coloured ringlets seemed far from out of place. It was then Jace noticed that her brother was not similarly attired, though there was a flash of gold in his hands which drew Jace's attention to the mask he had clasped in his fingers.

"Should you not be attending the Princess's birthday celebrations?" he enquired at length.

Two sets of honey curls trembled as the siblings shook their heads in unison. "No, Your Excellence." Helen corrected through a sweet smile, "They have yet to begin. And I am ready."

"I can see that" Jace tried to return a smile of pretended ease though he remained oblivious as to why he was in their company. "But you, Lord…" He realised too late that Andrew Blackthorn had too many damn sons for him to attach the correct name to this one.

"Mark" The younger man supplied for him blandly, fixing those odd eyes on the diplomat. One was the same clear blue as his older sister's but the single burning gold eye boring into Jace currently served as a jolting reminder that there were blood ties between the three of them. They were his distant cousins. In fact, by blood their family were more closely related to the Herondales than the Morgensterns, but of course no one pointed that out as doing so was dangerously close to highlighting just how weak the Morgenstern claim on the throne they occupied was.

"Mark" Jace echoed belatedly and apologetically, wondering briefly if, in other circumstances he might have grown up calling these two "Cousin" and their father's estates 'home'. Had Stephen Herondale lived he may as well have granted the wardship of his son and heir to their closest relatives. In another life he could have had Mark and Helen in the place of his Alec and Isabelle. "You are not dressed for the revels."

Mark's mouth twisted into an ironic grin, "Nor will I be for I am not attending. Not in person anyway." He stated matter-of-factly, passing the gold mask he had been clutching in his hand to Jace found who himself even more confused, which he had not thought possible. The ambassador looked down at his new possession, wordlessly perplexed.

Thankfully Helen interceded with an explanation, "All you need understand, sir, is that I have many reasons of my own to curry favour with the Princess. And that Mark hates dancing and has, I am assured, a book he desires the company of more than anyone in the hall. However it would be very remiss of us not to attend the Princess's celebrations and so he needs to be there. "

Jace could not help but smile at Mark in return, surprisingly pleased by the realisation that they may share more than a set of ancestors. "I am not averse to dancing, but I can empathise with preferring a book to people. That being said Lady Helen, I cannot see what makes you so anxious to make a good impression on the Princess. She already trusts you implicitly," he reminded her with a meaningful look.

"Yes well I would like to keep it that way." Jace wanted to protest that Clary was not as changeable as her father in playing court favourites and that her trust need not be won over and over again, but he felt he was at last beginning to see what had brought the two siblings here this evening and he was not about to damage his rare good luck.

"Which is why Mark will not be attending the ball and yet will. Because you will be there, in his stead. You are a good enough match for each other," she insisted, gesturing at his blond hair and stature with a devilish smile growing across her slight, elvish features , "The only thing that may give you away is your height. You are taller than Mark but I doubt anyone will be looking too closely and with the mask… I do believe this venture might succeed."

"But surely the King…"

"The King is not attending" she insisted, her voice growing evermore silkily persuasive with each syllable, "None of the Lords are, an emergency council meeting has been called. The Prince will be absent too, he has already departed. Tonight is a night for us youngsters. I am leading you into the most minimal danger, I swear by all the saints. Come, Jace! You know you want to!"

He could not argue with that, it was the purest truth. Jace couldn't help himself, though he knew he had more than overindulged in idiocy of late this was too good an opportunity to pass up. Clary would appreciate the daringly romantic gesture, it was just like something out of those old romances she adored.

"Who am I supposed to be?" he enquired, summoning an equally mischievous smile.

"Apollo" Helen stated, grabbing at his wrist and pulling him towards the door.

* * *

 _ **Privas, Ardèche, Southern France, Early August 1536**_

The beauty of taverns beyond the primary good they sold lay in the advantages of the goods they sold. For instance, despite the fact that strangers were rare in this establishment (the only real clientele being the unfortunate few who had neither the wit nor the funds to frequent anywhere other than this dank and dirty spot) those who were on the premises were, by and large, far too drunk to look twice at the two strange young men occupying the corner seat.

How exactly one managed to get drunk on wines so appallingly watered down as these was a phenomena in itself. Perhaps inexplicable miracles of plenty did exist, Jonathan thought to himself as he hacked at the hardened wax encrusted on the table before him. The dejectedly drooping lump of what remained of the candle itself hunched in the middle of the table, the misshapen skeletal fingers of what had once been melted wax sprawled over the table towards the glowering prince and his companion, curling in sickly yellow, bony tendrils between the cracks in the wood. Alternating between his own fingernails and- for the thicker and thus more challenging hunks-his knife, Jonathan continued his labours without investing any real attention in his task. His mind was free to fully take in his surroundings, almost as though he were drawing up a battle plan. On the table to their immediate left a heated game of cards was taking place, the grimy wall lay to their backs, to their right the players in the previous gamble were concluding the transaction of winnings, or lack thereof by bellowing at each other and attempting to smash one another's heads in. Most importantly, from here they had the best view possible of the door.

"Of all the questionable establishments we've been in, this one really is a new level of degenerate."

Jonathan scowled at his companion, with a moment of undisguised distaste, "Keep your damn voice down. I know it is a shithole, that is why I chose it. No one would think to look for a prince here. God help us I think none of these wretches would recognise a royal if he charged up behind them, landed a blow of his own in the card debacle and dumped a barrel of the cellar's finest wine over their heads." He broke off from his sour sarcasm to fix a warning glare on Verlac, "Unless of course some idiot were to announce their presence with more inane commentary in a very loud and notably Idrisian accent."

Verlac shifted his weight indignantly at the chastising, causing the stool beneath him to shriek with equal offence. The duo remained in a gloomy silence for a time, which enabled a full appreciation of the very drunken and very bawdy singsong taking place in the far corner. That too would serve its purpose, Jonathan reminded himself as his irritable temper piqued once more, even if there was anyone on this site that cared enough what he might have to say here they would not be able to hear him say it.

Sebastian's head lifted suddenly, and apparently his mood with it, as he took another swig from his tankard and allowed a damp-lipped smile to spread across his face. Jonathan followed his gaze, chortling softly to himself as it led him to a young woman perched on a nearby table, whose scarlet mouth, saucily rouged cheeks and the glimpse of thigh she displayed with tactful and inviting promiscuity made no mystery of her trade.

The perfect spot for any covertly dissolute and lucrative business dealings indeed.

"Restrain yourself Sebastian" the Prince drawled, allowing his free finger to glide along the rim of his own cup. The drink was an accessory, nothing more. Jonathan had no intention of drinking his way into dulled senses tonight and anyway, a few sips of the stale diluted drink left an acrid enough taste on his tongue to dissuade him from enjoying another mouthful.

"Why?" Verlac demanded, with poorly affected boredom that failed to cover much of his petulance. "It seems your contact is typically French. Utterly bloody faithless. I doubt they'll come at all."

"First of all-" Jonathan began, clinging to what remained of his limited patience and trying to remember why exactly he had been so keen to bring the Earl with him in the first place, "One would think that you would take better care of your favourite toy, Verlac. God only knows what she is carrying. You can do better than that cheap slut as well you know it. Pretend you have a semblance of self-control. I'll get you a decent night's entertainment when we get back to Alicante. Besides, there will be a lady here soon enough for you to entertain. A lady who is not French as a matter of fact."

Sebastian snorted, "Aye she's not French. It's worse than that, the bitch is Italian. They are even more untrustworthy, sir."

"Precisely," Jonathan growled in return, not letting his eye stray too far from the crack of cool, darkened street visible through the door.

"She is very young," Sebastian continued doubtfully

Jonathan could not supress an eye roll, "You said it yourself; she's Italian. Better than that she is from banker's stock. I daresay she left the womb ruthless."

Sebastian took another swig of his beverage, at this point so desperate to get some kind of affect from it that he downed several gulps with such gusto that a trickle of beer seeped out of the corner of his mouth and dripped in a rivulet down his chin. Having drained it, the cup was returned to the table with a decisive clink and a sleeve was raised to wipe the remainder of the liquid from his lower face before Verlac proceeded. "Exactly. At least the French have certain lines they are unlikely to cross. The Italians have no scruples. Especially not Florentines, they are from Machiavelli's natural damn habitat for God's sake."

Jonathan's lips threatened to twitch to a smirk. "You know Verlac, you are delightfully less stupid than you look. I have always found that endearing. It is one of the few things I like about you."

A brief sizzling resentment flashed in his companion's eyes for half a heartbeat before he allowed a small, cynical smile of his own to surface, "That and the fact I am not only willing to ride to France with you on short notice, but upon arrival am content to drink cheap beer and abstain from any kind of good sport in favour of watching you treat with Florentines. Surely that buys me some favour, Sire?"

"But of course. Your devotion is always rewarded" Jonathan reassured, the silky promise sliding from his lips as easily as his fingertip slid along the top of his own untouched drink once more.

"And you, who trust no one, are willing to trust _her_ to help you?"

"I am trusting her to help herself."

He could tell by the tension lingering in Sebastian's shoulder and the sullen looks he kept tossing at their unsavoury surroundings that he was far from convinced. No matter, he did not need Sebastian's faith, just his compliance. That did not settle the impatient anxiety snarling in his gut. Though that could well be because his stomach was empty, he had ridden long and hard to get here and it had been hours since he had last stopped to eat. There was certainly no way in hell he was prepared to chance any of the food this tavern was prepared to offer, having glimpsed hunks of angry looking red meats practically still weeping blood being served on trenchers over the grimy tables. Further evidence the clientele were far from particular in what they consumed. It was no surprise few of them passed thirty.

At any rate, the hollowing hunger within gave his mind the keen edge he needed now more than ever. Jonathan could have gone elsewhere for his supper but he was certainly not about to give up his seat now, nor was he in any way eager to wander the town in search of better fare. The more places he went the more people who saw him and the greater danger. Not that he was expecting a great exposé, but he knew his colouring to be remarkable and he did not want to be catching any eyes. Besides, as Verlac had pointed out, he was not about to blindly trust in his new friends completely. "It will not be long now. Go to the door" he barked at his accomplice, letting his hands fall back to his lap so that they might be closer to his weapon should be need to draw it.

Once he was alone he readjusted the cap on his head, so that the brim cast a deeper shadow over his features and pressed his spine closer to the wall. With the stone tucked firmly against his back he could be sure no one was going to stick a knife in it. A position he was instantly all the more glad to be in at the sight of Verlac approaching him not half an hour later at haste, shoving a giddily tottering old man out of his way in his irritable excitement.

"Here?"

"Here." The urgency was all too much for Verlac and he mistakenly allowed Jonathan's title to slip through his lips, "Highness-" Jonathan's instinctive rebuke never made it into words as Sebastian continued to speak and rendered him momentarily speechless, " _She_ is here. In person!"

As the surprise wore off Jonathan found it was replaced with sheer glee, "Ah, I should have known."

Sebastian did not share his rejoicing, frowning at his prince and hopping his weight from foot to foot as though he were prepared to flee at the first given moment, "Lord, are we to proceed?"

"Of course, why not?"

"A woman! A well-dressed woman! Do your really expect a noblewoman to visit here without raising eyebrows? She was supposed to send a representative, not put us all at risk by coming in person."

"I came in person" Jonathan pointed out, not investing any proper concentration in Sebastian's fretting.

"Yes but they do not know that. And you are not a woman! She will give us away. We should move out. Now."

Jonathan lifted a hand to silence him. "We will do no such thing. This is too good an opportunity to waste. Mayhap our only opportunity. I do not like the alternative, nor will you. So take a seat and shut your mouth."

In reluctant discomfort Sebastian dropped back into place beside his prince. "I really should have foreseen this." Jonathan muttered, the kind of delight that only finding common ground with someone could generate in his breast. "Of course we would both come in person. She trusts no one at her court either."

The newest group to enter the tavern did unfortunately stand out, a veritable tower of peculiarity. A bulky man lead, shuffling with the kind of practised yet weighted movements that signified he was likely armed to the teeth, followed by a cloaked feminine figure who had one hand holding the hood that concealed her face in place and another pulling her skirts away from the filthy straw scattered floor as she moved with brisk and somehow dainty march, the rear being brought up by a shorter male figure in long dark robes. The woman's head lifted briefly, without baring any of her face and her gaze must have snagged on the duo in the corner for the dark hooded head turned to the side and a single gloved hand made a commanding gesture to her guard who stepped aside and allowed her to approach accompanied only by the other man.

Jonathan tipped his head closer to Sebastian and rapidly muttered, "You see, Verlac? They are matching our numbers out of courtesy, despite the fact that she is a woman and therefore counts not at all. It would appear Italians do have manners. Who would have imagined it?"

The newest arrivals installed themselves on the other side of the table, "Sebastian Verlac?" the man asked tentatively.

"Greetings" Jonathan acknowledged his supposed name with a nod, before flicking his eyes to the side, "This is my companion Ferdinand. You will have to excuse his silence, the Spaniard's French is exceedingly poor."

To his surprise their introductions were met with a rasping laugh, as the hood was finally tipped back.

The girl before him was young, just seventeen he believed, but she seemed somehow older. Catherine de Medici was by no means a breath-taking beauty, with a rounded face and light brown drawn back from a rather large forehead and tucked under a simple cap. But it was her eyes that held Jonathan's attention, not solely because they were a touch protruding, but because the frank dark gaze currently pierced through even her affected good humour and subsequently him. Jonathan could all but hear the clink of the chains as the scales measured him.

"A pleasure to meet your acquaintance, my lord earl." Her voice was deep for a woman's, though not unpleasantly so, and there was something about the ever present sharpness in her expression and voice that Jonathan found himself warming to. There was little doubt in the keen look she fixed upon him that she knew she was not addressing 'Sebastian Verlac.'

"I am Count Montecuccoli," Her own companion stated before fixing an expectant look on Jonathan. Evidently the young Duchesse d'Orléans required no introduction. That in itself was a pity, Jonathan would have liked her to use her titles, since she would not be a Duchess much longer if all went to plan. "I am so glad we have the opportunity to meet at last to discuss our- mutual interest," he purred instead.

The Count narrowed his eyes at the disguised prince before him, "Now that you speak of them my lord, I must assume you have the package we agreed upon?"

Jonathan let his question hang in the air a moment before wordlessly dipping a hand inside his plain black cloak and letting it fall to the leather pouch at his waist. It contained just one thing, the small clear vial wrapped in rags to prevent shattering. He presented it alongside his most charming smile, "For the _Bella Donna._ " A slight tinge of colour sprouted across Catherine's cheekbones at the complimentary pun, while her eyes lit up with flaring fascination as she beheld the small bottle being slid across the table. Thanks to the arm the Count had already laid along the surface it was only a matter of one easy whisk from his free hand for that bottle to disappear up his sleeve.

"Nightshade" the Medici girl breathed, having abandoned any attempts at pretended disinterest or careful composure. The appearance of the poison had pleased her more than Jonathan's perfunctory flirtation ever could. "I have read of it."

 _Of course you have you silly little mare, for I saw to it you both got the necessary books_. Blessedly, one of his old paramours had married a lord at the French court in recent years and so it had been wonderfully easy to see the necessary documents make their way into the necessary rooms. The book that had soon made its way into the hands of one of her only friends, the Count at her side now. "I have read more of arsenic though" she shot a dubiously questioning glance in Jonathan's direction.

He responded with a grin displaying his hungry excitement, "I toyed with the idea. But the Borgias overused it which has cost arsenic much of its appeal to my eyes. I would rather be a little original."

With a momentary burst of quiet laughter the Duchess was placated.

It was common knowledge that the wife of the Dauphin's younger brother was almost as unpopular to her subjects than Jonathan was to his. There were many wagging tongues who claimed young Prince Henry had been wasted in marriage, the girl with his ring on her finger was no princess but an Italian who hailed from no greater line than that of glorified bankers. Jonathan, whose forefathers had been soldiers and mercenaries, could empathise.

Though at the time of her wedding King Francois had not needed a princess for his son but a loan that could feed an army and a possible foothold in Italy to help that army on its way to conquest. The greatest thing Catherine de Medici could boast of was a blood relation to the pope who had arranged her nuptials. The fact that a family member had sat in St Peter' chair was the ultimate and only proof of her inherent corruption required. Indeed, Jonathan Morgenstern had found it most easy to buy her. Worst of all, in the four years she had been married the Duchesse had failed to fall pregnant even once. The barren Italian. It had a wickedly fine ring to it. He knew what it was to be spat on too. All of which had inspired Jonathan to first put pen to paper and make an effort to meet the lady's acquaintance. An acquaintance that would prove to be beyond beneficial.

And here they were, the two royal failures, finally beginning their workings of revenge.

The only other thing that rankled Catherine de Medici almost as much as it did Jonathan was the thought of Clary marrying the Dauphin, a pretty young princess by blood coming to the French court who would be preferred to this girl regardless of what she said or did, or how odd and interfering the foreign lady may be.

Though the real connection may be with the girl, he also knew it was the Count he had to address. "I understand, though you came to France with the Duchesse d'Orleans you are now in the service of the Dauphin?" Jonathan tore on in an urgent undertone. Montecuccoli nodded once, jaw set with grim determination. Sensing that things were finally on the final victory lap he motioned to Sebastian to bring in some drinks. "I feel I ought to advise you sir that after a certain potion is administered one of its first symptoms is great thirst. So I suggest that in order to prevent any, let us say…unhappy glances in your direction, you should provide water when requested. Preferably where many will see you do so and note your devoted service and evident loyalty."

Another nod, this one more purposeful.

 _I want you where enough people will see your loyalty in publicly giving a man a drink just before he dies that they quickly call it disloyalty. For young, healthy men about to have a betrothal announced publicly do not just drop dead. Foul play is cried and when it is I want you to be caught. You who believe me to be an agent of the Emperor at the Idrisian court. Mercifully your master, immersed in war as he is, will be only too glad to lap up that explanation._

The girl was another matter, for she knew precisely who she was speaking to it would appear. That likely should have worried him or put him on edge, but it failed to do so. Jonathan found that he liked the idea that she knew who he was and not just in name strangely but personally, more so that anyone in his immediate circle of family or friends. She understood him in their brief correspondence more than most other people, and Jonathan had wanted to be understood for so long. This desperate striving for a similarity with another person was his one real weakness and in truth he could not allow it to colour his interactions, especially not in a matter so important and precarious as this. But he reminded himself that there was no serious danger in Catherine's correct guessing at his identity; even if anyone did point the finger in her direction at the Dauphin's untimely death she, as a noblewoman would be in the privileged position of being able to keep her mouth shut. There would be no experience of torture that may loosen her lips.

Really his father should thank him for all of this. Fanning the flames of war and ensuring that the King of France and the Emperor were kept most firmly at one another's throats gave Idris a kind of liberty that could be useful. With her powerful neighbour's focus and arms directed elsewhere it would be significantly easier for an Idrisian force to seep into Adamant and take hold of it. Not a hold that Idris would keep for very long, but it would serve to give Valentine a modicum of happiness for the time being.

The real Sebastian returned with their drinks at last. "Now that we have reached our accord I feel a celebratory toast is in order!" Jonathan allowed his genuine satisfaction to leak into his bravado and give it a ring of sincerity. He lifted the cup laid before him in unison with his companions, letting a rare undiluted smile of triumph warm his face. This time he did feel his labours would bear fruit. "To the Dauphine. "

Catherine de Medici's eyes lit up again, giving her features a semblance of beauty all of a sudden, a fierce delight and fortitude that made Jonathan realise that one day, when she could wield the power he was about to give her, this young woman would be fearsome.

"To the Dauphine" she echoed, and the title rested as nicely on her lips as it soon would the rest of her.

* * *

 **A/N: And that is where we conclude for now. I must say I enjoyed writing that scene in which Clary and Isabelle got to be typical teenage girls, gossiping and playing dress up albeit in the context of another era. I for one believe that the concept of a bff transcends the centuries :) I have also played around a it with the idea of a masked ball. The one Clary throws I have modernised a little making it less of a masque and more of a Romeo and Juliet-esque party (deliberate similarity there) and just to make the story fit that bit better, but there is more of that to come, so you'll see for yourselves.**

 **Finally as for Jonathan and his escapades; up to no good as usual. I saw the opportunity to write a young Catherine de Medici and I took it, for the Reign fans :) Again, historically the idea that the young Dauphin Francis was poisoned has been dismissed and tuberculosis blamed instead. Yet the writer in me could not let the more likely truth get in the way of a good story. I could hardly pass up on a good old murder conspiracy now could I? Besides, I feel that had Jonathan been alive at the time he definitely would have found a common connection with Catherine, who is a personal favourite historical figure of mine. Up there with Anne Boleyn in case you hadn't noticed. Despite being unpopular and falling into moral ambiguity at times she would go on to be one of the most powerful women of her age when she ruled France as regent. Given the context of that rule and the extreme religious upheaval I think that has to be admired. But, preaching over. I think now that I've nerded out I can sign off for another while. Lastly, thank you guys so much for reading and for your positive reviews! They really do keep me smiling. Until next time :)**


	14. Waking up

_**A/N: Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No- it's that update that comes around every Halley's comet. Sorry about that, genuinely. I had initially another prequel chapter lined up, but I kind of felt ultimately I was shoe-horning in for the sake of another one being overdue. I want them to feel more natural, hopefully because they parallel the main plot. So I decided to hold fire on that one and just plough on with Clary and co.**_

 _ **There is some mild steaminess at the end of the first section, just a bit of forewarning there. Alternate chapter title: Clary and the French Kiss ;) My only other point is that some of you have been wondering what Jace might do with his wish. First of all, let me tell you a request for three more wishes is indeed off the cards. Speaking of which; does anyone really feel that Valentine is in the habit of passing around 'get-out-of-jail-free' cards? Nope. He has, at risk of making him sound like Baldrick, a cunning plan in all of this which is emerging at the snails pace that I produce this fic. But yes, that request is an important plot point. It may not come into play just yet, but I haven't (remarkably) forgotten about it. The point is that much like Clary, Jace has rarely been asked what he wants in life and so this magic wish isn't something he's prepared to squander. Moving swiftly on...**_

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* * *

 _Waking up_

 _ **Bellgate, Southern Lakelands, early August 1536**_

In life few things were certain, as Jace very well knew having managed to go from prince to pauper before he had even left the womb. The lesson there had been that things would fall apart for him sooner or later without any personal assistance required.

Yet here he was, shouldering his way as gently and subtly as he could past unidentifiable and gaudily attired young courtiers in search of his princess. He was already doomed for having had anything to do with her, but apparently still sought to maximise all possible danger and all but beg for his own life to be ruined. At some point between his rooms and the great hall the serious idiocy of this- (was plan even an adequate word?) _fiasco-_ had slowly sunk in and Jace Herondale was no longer sure that he was ready to greet the dark inevitability of death just yet. There really was no need to hasten it.

He was beginning to suspect Helen may have started to feel the same, given the stiff set of her shoulders and intensity of the grip on his forearm as she towed him through the loitering, giggling crowd. Her neat little fingernails were dug into his flesh so firmly he wondered if they were not imbedded there for the foreseeable future.

In his usual twisted fashion, his mind leapt straight to envisioning in great and gruesome detail the worst case scenario. Just what exactly would the young Lady Blackthorn do if they were discovered? Jace could quite easily picture her whirling around with her mouth falling open and face contorting instantly into an expression of sheer horror that would rival any gargoyle, "By God! You are right! He is not my brother!" (Here, in his mind, she would fling away his limb as though it had caught fire or leprosy) "Villainy! Deceit!"

An absurd smile stretched across his face at the imagining. Helen chose that moment to glance over her shoulder at him, and caught it lurking there.

"You are enjoying yourself?" She snapped, though her voice crackled with barely underlying nerves.

"The trick is to smile. Traitors never smile." The hysteria was setting in.

She looked as though she wanted to strangle him, which put Jace somewhat at ease; that was after all how he was accustomed to girls looking at him ultimately. "But do keep bickering with me, it adds to the sibling façade."

"I believe the façade has served its purpose." Helen drew in a fluttering little nervous breath and released him without warning. Jace's arm flopped back to his side numb from the elbow down, and he instinctively moved to massage some blood flow back into it. For a fraction of a moment he was thankful she had grabbed his right arm and not his left before realising neither would be much good to him as all weapons had been removed from all guests upon arrival at the hall. As though someone was likely to assassinate the Princess at her own birthday! However that coupled with the many men at arms edging around the hall with grim expressions and eyes as sharp as their blades was not helping Jace's delicate mental disposition at all.

"You are abandoning me? I am not smiling anymore!"

"Not abandoning. Depositing."

"Is there any possibility you could phrase that in a way that makes me feel less like a full chamber pot?"

Jace thought for a wonderful moment Helen was going to tell him he and the hypothetical chamber pot had much in common in terms of what they were full of, since Clary would have, but it seemed Helen was too polite. She just frowned at him a best she could with a mask in the way and shook her head, "Leaving you to your own devices, then."

Jace pulled a face, "If you close your eyes and strain your ears you can hear Alec objecting from the other end of the castle. Left to my own devices? That you should never do, Lady." He broke off as they were approached by a serving girl dressed as a nymph and offering wine cups. The duo took theirs a little too hastily in their panic to fit in, and a little of Jace's slipped over the rim and splashed onto his hand. He forced himself to relax somewhat against the pillar they had stopped against, slouching as much as possible so that Mark Blackthorn's overnight growth spurt was less noticeable, and dabbing at the droplet of wine on his hand with the edges of his sleeve absentmindedly. Helen sidled a little closer, but he could clearly see she was itching to flee the scene. She kept glancing in the direction of another dark haired girl, one in a white and grey dress with a silver owl mask over her features. Jace had too look twice to recognise Aline Penhallow dressed as Athena. Isabelle had told him the two girls were inseparable. Not too close for her to come rushing over here and realise Helen was not engrossed in conversation with her brother after all, he hoped.

"I am leaving you as close as I can get you" his companion presently hissed defensively.

Jace made himself wait one of the longest moments of his life before glancing as disaffectedly as possible in the direction Helen's eyes had darted. His ears caught the shimmering laugh he would know anywhere before his eyes latched onto her and sure enough, distanced somewhat from the main press of bodies and chuckling with the figure draped in bright leopard fur that could only be Magnus Bane was a familiarly petite redhead.

A warning light touch on his arm again brought his attention skidding back to Helen who shot him one last wordless yet meaningful glance before beginning to back away to intercept an approaching Aline. "Good evening!" her friend called over in Jace's direction and he had to pretend not to hear her so his not-Blackthorn coloured eyes could go on staring in the other direction. "Is all well?"

"Yes perfectly well. Forgive Mark, he is in one of his moods." Helen laughed with affected good cheer, steering Aline away with hectic enthusiasm, "Come, I want to dance!"

Mercifully for Jace, the one other thing in life that seemed to be certain was that Magnus Bane could throw a party. The entire hall was crammed full of brilliantly attired courtiers, buoyed up in their own little cloud of self-indulgence by the swelling music coming from the other end of the hall and surrounded in streaming decorations and Grecian plaster pillars, draped in false ivy to give a more authentic Olympian feel. Even the candelabras were wound in ribbons and jewels as far as Jace could see.

The immediate benefit here was that the revels afforded an excellent distraction and no one glanced twice at him, so Jace found that even vulnerable as he felt here on his own he was rather glad to see Helen and Aline go; it left him alone with his thoughts of Clary.

Tonight she looked exquisite. _Aphrodite_ he breathed aloud, with something akin reverence. Before tonight he would not have thought of it- not because he did not think she was pretty enough- but because she was not beautiful in the typically lauded way, and he had thought Clary too self-consciously modest to want to dress as such. Isabelle's influence was clear however, and the more Jace looked at her the more perfect it seemed.

He was even more delighted her father was not here, and was beginning to see why he had been so willing to forgo the celebrations and insist the rest of his council do so too. Clary was currently wearing a white silken dress that would have been unspeakably scandalous to the eyes of any sober gentleman, therefore only Isabelle could have dressed her. The material clung to her delicately curving figure and was cut to reveal her bare creamy shoulders. The edges of the gown were trimmed in turquoise- to symbolise the sea spray the goddess had been born of- and her long flaming curls had been gathered up and lifted off her neck, held in place by clasps shaped like golden doves. He tried to draw closer without drawing too much attention to himself, trying to look as confident as any young lord who had a perfectly good right to give the Princess his best wishes on her birthday. As he did so he noted that she was less sparsely bejewelled than usual, taking stock of the long pearl chain around her neck, the turquoise and sapphire locket at her throat and the small pearl and gold earrings that winked softly in the candlelight at his approach.

Oblivious, she turned back to Magnus, who was plucking fruits off a bunch of grapes he carried around (Jace did not immediately accept that he was doing this to enhance his being Dionysius for the night, as opposed to just something Magnus would normally do) and feeding them theatrically to Isabelle Lightwood. Jace only recognised her because she had unwillingly been accosted with details of the silver dress she had ordered specially for the occasion. He had to admit it was stunning, though he was dubious as to whether the sloping neckline really captured the virginal Artemis.

He spared a silent prayer of gratitude to whatever saint might be listening that Isabelle was officially part of Clary's household and not his embassy, as it permitted her presence here tonight. At least Jace had one friend who might assist him in his latest suicidal endeavour.

His one great wish was to hasten to Clary, but he bade himself wait, skirting around the central group in the room until the approach of one of the Pontmercy boys created enough of a diversion to allow him to catch Izzy's attention with a brief wave, rather than that of her mistress.

As she well knew, Isabelle looked beautiful at any given moment, but tonight she truly was breath-taking; her slender shape seemingly caught up in real spun stars and moonlight in that dazzling gown. Her long ebony hair fell over one shoulder in a single braid, wound through too with silver thread and even red stones, it was rare that Izzy abandoned her signature colour. Or the signature look of puzzlement and then sheer horror that the appearance of Jace usually summoned.

Within moments she had excused herself and pushed briskly past Magnus, making straight for Jace. He quickly turned away before anyone could follow Izzy with their eyes and spot him, developing a sudden fascination with the nearest pillar. Despite his turned back he could just about hear the furious clicking of his foster-sister's heeled shoes over the music and background chatter before she was properly beside him, brown eyes wide and lips flying; "Tell me there has been some extraordinary crisis or inescapable disaster in France that explains your being here. For if there has not been some crisis already I fear there is about to be!"

Jace slowly shook his head and tried to reassure her with a conspiratorial smirk. It failed.

"Jace, what are you doing here?"

"Ah, so Helen failed to mention any of this to you then?"

"Helen? Helen is responsible for this folly?"

Jace instantly felt guilty; he had been making rather a concerted effort to not get his new friend in trouble. He attempted a reassuring snicker and shrug, "Must someone always be responsible for the folly? Perhaps the folly is an uncontainable force that cannot be captured or directed."

His philosophy was wasted on Isabelle, "Someone must always be responsible for you" she corrected acidly, the arrow shaped earring dangling from the visible lobe swaying with the disbelieving shake of her head. It was remarkable the semblance she bore to her brother in that moment, though Jace felt Alec would have conveyed his point with less mockery and venom.

"Exactly. And tonight, my dear, the poison chalice has fallen to you. So, since I am in, help me achieve what I came to do and then we can both get out."

"I don't want to get out" Isabelle whined, pulling at the edges of her mask huffily, "I was enjoying myself before you appeared and started trying to get me killed."

"I am not trying to get you killed" Jace hissed back. "Quite the opposite. Come now, you did tell Clary you would help me."

"And I have begun to regret doing so." She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth with disapproval before nudging his arm, "There is a shaded alcove over there" she gestured with a tilt of her head, "The stonework on the floor is cracking I believe, or some such problem. It has been converted to a storage chamber in recent years. At any rate it is far enough down the hall that I doubt anyone will bother you. I suppose I could send her down there for a very brief time." It was her turn to shrug, "And failing that you shall have to frolic in the privy."

"How romantic. Which reminds me Izzy, refrain from telling her who it is that craves an emergency audience."

Isabelle only responded with a scornful snort and some doubtlessly scathing remark under her breath, but the main thing was that she did in fact comply, gliding off back to where Clary waited while Jace made himself scarce.

For all his feigned complaints Jace sought out his hiding place happily enough. It was indeed now some storage chamber, used for holding the props of various masques and revels. Jace's attention snagged on a model cannon which had a truly authentic look about it, and he indulged in a curious rap against the surface, secretly disappointed when there came no resounding clang of metal. Before long he heard the echo of coming steps and did his best to melt back into the shadows.

Clary drew back the curtain and made her way cautiously inside. "Isabelle? Simon?"

Jace tried to ignore the twinge of irritation that jerked in his gut at her automatic presumption the musician of all people would have gone to such lengths to surprise her on her birthday. She turned away from his hiding spot unknowingly, scanning the surroundings with avid interest, even reaching out to stroke the feathers on a protruding and somewhat crooked angel wing. From her new position Jace found he became transfixed with the visible skin of her shoulder, and almost in a dream he lifted his left hand and laid it against the bare flesh, marvelling in the unshielded warmth under his fingers, and the vague ridge of her shoulder bone by the underside of his palm.

At his unexpected touch a delicate shudder rippled through her petite frame and she whirled round to face him, dark emerald eyes flaring under the chased gold of her mask, initially nonplussed as to whom had dared such an audacious advance only to stare at him stunned. Then the surprise melted off her face and her lips popped slightly with the stunned 'o' her mouth formed upon recognition. God above he wanted to kiss her. Really and truly what he wanted to do was much more than that, and once more he was thankful for the mask, provided it concealed the sudden intensity of his desire to drag her away from this hall altogether, to where there were truly no prying eyes and ravish her. He imagined sharing in that fantasy would make Clary uncomfortable more than anything.

Despite his genuine respect for her and her modesty, as she had turned he had failed to lift his hand away from her and consequently it had slid over her smooth skin and his fingers now rested curled at her collarbone, over her racing heartbeat. He allowed it to linger there just a moment longer before reluctantly releasing her. Clary recovered quickly, though he was sure he had not mistaken the minor hitch in her breathing as he grasped her fingers and touched his lips softly to her hand. It was the most basic exhibition of courtesy, not to mention entirely unnecessary in their present situation, and he imagined hundreds of kisses had been put there over the past few months. That being known, he allowed himself to bask in the pride of his own certainty that none of them had ever made her breath skip to the back of her throat, or made her long for the contact to be on her mouth instead. Her cheeks remained tinged with that charming edge of rosy colour and she kept drawing her tongue over her lips. whether she realised she was doing do or not it was driving him mad.

"Jace-" she exhaled his name softly, arms automatically rising to catch around his neck. It was impossible to resist drawing her closer still, skimming his lips against hers as he had longed to, but narrowly avoiding a kiss in earnest. She pulled away and frowned a little at him, "Does anyone know you are here? Apart from Izzy?"

"Just Helen and Mark Blackthorn."

She weighed the risks for a single heartbeat before sliding her hand along his neck, just below his jawline, and guiding his lips back to hers again.

"Does anyone know _you_ are here apart from Izzy?" He was close enough that he felt her lips skid back and forth across his rather than properly witness the responding shake of her head.

"I am afraid we do not have long though. I doubt my absence will be tolerated for very long tonight."

"I understand" Jace told her gruffly, sliding his hands with ease over the soft fabric of her gown, marvelling at just how much of her he could _feel_. Not only could he enjoy the heat flooding through the silk, but also the firmness of the bones at her hips and even the tantalising curve of her backside. "We needs must make do with what time we have."

Clary giggled, reaching up again, only this time it was to tug at the ties on the flimsy golden design obscuring his upper face, and she removed this mask with the same ease as she had the last one, leaning her head back to survey him with a smile. "Much better," she mused, then absentmindedly reached out to brush the fringe of gold curls back from his face and Jace-who normally would have ducked away at such fussing, and usually hated being touched like this- let a smile of his own unwind across his face.

"Return the favour" he chided in a murmur, and removed her own mask, finding the gestures oddly intimate. It was hardly as though they were properly undressing one another, yet as the two masks joined one another on the floor Jace's heart was beating hard enough he was sure she must be able to hear it.

Whatever assumption that all that passed between them tonight would be fairly innocent was blown away in seconds, as Clary kissed him once more, only to part her lips under his.

Jace jumped back as though he had been burnt, "What are you doing?!"

Clary looked as though she dearly wanted to melt into a puddle and be drunk by dogs, her mouth gaping and closing rapidly as she struggled to form words. "I-forgive me- I- well I thought-you see. Is this not the French manner?"

A sole huff of astonished laughter escaped Jace before he could collect himself, "Yes. It is." He nodded once or twice, struggling to form words himself. "But how do you know that?"

"Isabelle told me. Rather, she suggested it. She put me quite under the impression you were expecting it."

"You asked Isabelle how I like to be kissed?"

"Not in those words! And it never seems to be so much what I ask Izzy compared to what she manages to tell me." She sucked in another breath and circled herself in her arms, "Forgive me. That was unacceptably forward."

"Forward?" Jace attempted to prise her fingers off herself and pulled her back into his arms, "No,not at all. I was just not expecting it."

Clary uttered a mumbling laugh into his shoulder, "Nor was I. When she told me of all this tongue-in-mouth business I found it all quite abhorrent, truth be told."

"It is not abhorrent! And if you really thought so then why try it?"

"I hardly know! I have not done a great deal of kissing in my life and-well.. It did not feel so inappropriate in the moment," she confided.

"Precisely" Jace said, letting his fingers creep under her chin and push her face up to his once more, "Should you like to try again?"

Clary barely hesitated before she nodded slowly, eyes wide with anticipation and then fluttering shut. This time Jace took the lead, pressing his lips to hers and gradually allowing his tongue to slide along her bottom lip, which she instinctively took as the invitation to part her own lips again, and at last they were kissing, properly kissing. It was thrilling in a way that no kiss had ever been for him before, this new contact sending waves of heat through Jace's limbs, until whatever fears or apprehensions he harboured still were burnt away.

All of which only served to escalate the situation further. Only half aware of what he was doing Jace found himself catching the back of her legs and pulling them around his waist as he lifted her upwards and then pressed her against the wall. She gasped aloud in his mouth as the cold of the plaster met with her naked skin, one sleeve of her gown having either already fallen down or mayhap been assisted in its fall from grace. She instinctively tightened the grip of her thighs on his hips, and now Jace was the one groaning aloud, pressing his palm against the wall and flinging his weight forward so hastily as he leaned in to kiss her again that he could feel the stone's indents and grooves sinking into his skin and marking him. In fact he may have moved in a little too zealously, for as his body pressed into Clary's again and pushed her up the wall, her head collided with what appeared in the gloom to be some kind of flagpole. The dull thud as the wood struck her skull was enough to pull Jace back to a state of concerned self-consciousness, which only lasted a split second before the world came falling down around them.

Quite literally, as the tumbling flagpole snagged in a mouth eaten, sagging tapestry and pulled it down, in turn accompanied by various props.

Instinctively Jace pulled Clary downwards too, so as he could better curl his body around her and shield her as best he could from the falling debris around them. He huffed out a curse as what felt like a helmet struck him between the shoulder blades and made him seriously question why he had chosen this moment to adopt chivalric behaviour for a change. By the time the last item had bounced and rolled its way down to the floor via Jace's back and the two of them broke apart slowly their surroundings had changed somewhat. There were indeed clouds of dust being cast up as items that likely had not budged since the Morgenstern conquest were moved. They were startled once more by an unexpected clash as a tambourine belatedly flung itself from the cranny it had been stuffed in.

Clary glanced up at Jace and gasped fearfully, "My God. Do you think anyone heard that?"

On any other occasion Jace would have been certain they would already have been discovered and the whole scandal unearthed, but perhaps some pagan god was looking over them and their illicit romance, because in all the time they waited with baited breath not a single soul barged in to ruin their lives.

"I can hardly believe anyone did not hear that" Jace breathed in response, returning Clary's wide eyed gaze.

The stunned relief lasted only a moment before a helpless burst of laughter tore from Clary, and she had to push her fingers to her lips in an attempt to restrain her mirth, "Sweet Lord, can you imagine us being discovered like this?!" Admittedly, that would have been hilarious if it had not signed Jace's death warrant. Their current position in fact made things look much worse than they were, as Clary had one hand still clutching at his shoulder, her head level with his throat and her knees hugging his hips in the most incriminating fashion possible, especially since the action had altered the position on her hemline drastically and there was now a reputation-ruining amount of leg on display. He could not help but succumb to a brief fit of laughter himself, as Clary slid her legs to the floor once and for all and the light silk of her gown fell back into place between them.

It was not that he found any of this even remotely amusing, but Clary's laughter was undeniably infectious.

However what little humour he felt quickly dissipated upon a sole glance upwards, and the laughter lodged in his throat in a sensation that all of a sudden had the similarity to the lump that appeared there only in the presence of supressed tears. His eyes stayed stuck on the now visible section of wall and he could feel the flush drain out of his cheeks and jaw tighten as his grip on Clary slackened. Unsurprisingly, Clary tensed against him, given that he probably looked like a ghost, white faced and staring in the gloom, or at the very least as though he had seen one. Which he all but had.

"Jace, what is it?" She demanded in a hissing whisper, turning her head to follow his gaze once he failed to respond. He may have been exaggerating somewhat when he had considered that nothing in this storage room had been shifted in almost a hundred years, but clearly little had been touched in over twenty, for the ugly tapestry that had just been yanked off the wall had actually served a purpose. It had been concealing the coat of arms splayed on the wall behind it. In flaking, fading paint the insignia depicted in black, white and blue grey was the noble outline and proudly arching neck of a bird about to take flight.

A heron.

It was not that Jace hadn't been aware that a family coat of arms existed, in fact he had seen it stamped on one of the books he had pilfered from the Morgensterns as a child and kept with him for that purpose. But for some reason seeing it on a wall a stone's throw from the main hall, with ample suggestion that the home's occupants had decided to cover it with a tapestry rather than have it painted over or chipped off the wall overwhelmed him.

He was not blind, he saw the way some of the lords looked at him: some with suspicion, some with contempt and worse, a disturbingly large portion with an eager expectation that chilled him more than being ostracised ever had.

He was not what they thought he was. For the Herondale kings had not been all they'd been immortalised as. They had not been great men, they had been lucky men. Lucky that their reigns had not been plagued with famines or wars, lucky that their wives had always borne healthy sons,-who were few enough in number that there was rarely a jealous brother or uncle willing to stoke the fire of civil war, and certainly lucky that the Church of their day had not been tearing itself apart. They had not been the perfect demigods the commons had perceived them as but flawed, frightened men just like everyone else. God knew his father had been proof of that. Jace was proof of that.

Now he was here in Idris, with men like John Carstairs eager to remind him of his esteemed lineage at every turn and Andrew Blackthorn keeping Jace's family arms on his walls, and he was no longer sure if being accused of treason was his still greatest fear. It was only treason unless it succeeded, after all, and the prospect of attempting to take back the crown of Idris and being successful was utterly petrifying. For all those hot little surges of rebellion, and in spite of all the times he was tempted to barge into Valentine's chambers and use his wish to have his position acknowledged and his title returned, that was the height of his ambitions. Just to be Duke of Broceland and to have his family lands returned.

All he truly sought was the security that title would provide. It would mean no more living his life with his fortunes tied to the flux of a royal court and dictated to by whichever faction had the monarch's ear this week. It would be nice to be able to have a steady income from his tenants, nice to be able to leave the hectic dog-pit that was court and retreat to a home that was his own every once in a while, not one that belonged to the Lightwoods. It would, ultimately, be nice to actually have a home that would not change every time Francois Valois wanted a new bride for someone or went to war.

He only wanted what was his. The Morgensterns could keep their throne, it the most uncomfortable and precarious seat Jace could think of anyway.

"Oh," Clary gasped faintly, tightening her grip on his arm and bringing him back to the present, "I suppose-" he heard her swallow uncomfortably before proceeding cautiously, "The Blackthorns were always their bannermen."

Jace nodded without really processing a word she was saying.

"Jace?" He forced himself to look at her then, noting that she had caught her bottom lip (which was still rather swollen from his frantic kisses which already felt like they'd been exchanged years ago) between her teeth and was looking at him as though, for the very first time since they'd met, she could think of nothing to say to him. She was waiting for him to speak, he realised, because this was painfully awkward for her.

"…I don't know what happened with your father. Not beyond that he died for treason, I don't know what the precise charge was." She shook her head and repeated; "I don't know."

While Jace had been lost in his thoughts Clary had been thinking too, and she must have struggled to escape the conclusion that her father was the reason Jace had never known his, and that Valentine was the reason that Jace's coat of arms had to be hidden behind a dusty tapestry. She was trying to disassociate herself with the entire thing, a reflection would reveal to him.

And later Jace would also wish he had been able to tell her that he was not angry, not really. Certainly not with her, and truthfully not at Valentine personally either, since his hands had probably been tied at the time anyway. Kings could not allow would-be usurpers to live, not if they wanted to stay king. Besides, why should he feel an ounce of loyalty to a family he had never met compared to the man who had been the closest thing to a father he had ever known, whose daughter he was beginning to fear he loved-

"I have to go." The words exploded from him without his being aware he'd decided to speak them, "And so should you. This was foolish, for both of us."

"Jace." She was pleading now, fisting her hand around the fabric of his shirt and clinging to him desperately. He shook her free, not without difficulty, and backed out of the situation as quickly as he could, stumbling inevitably over fallen props and his own panicking feet. He did not even think to look for his mask as he shook his way out from under the curtain that had sheltered them and burst out into the open. How he managed to make it back to his rooms barefaced without being challenged he knew not, he was focusing only on getting away from that damned wall, and even at that moment Clary.

It seemed he had been wrong. There were certain things her kisses were never going to heal.

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* * *

If Magnus did not return from a party very late, and by that he meant preferably very early in the morning, then it had been a very poor party indeed and certainly not one he had planned. The Princess's birthday had been a roaring success, not that Magnus had expected it to go otherwise with him at the helm of preparations.

At first the young Clarissa had put him on edge, given that unnerving similarity she bore to her mother, but he had at long last gotten past that. The girl was not the second coming of Jocelyn Fairchild, not really, and thankfully she was nothing like her father either.

That aside, the only thing that could make him glad to see his rooms after a party was the presence of Alexander Lightwood in them. Once he had completed tugging the laurel crown out his hair and pulling the mask off his face Magnus set about slinging the leopard fur stole off his shoulders. He paused to roll his now liberated shoulders, secretly thankful to be rid of its weight before creeping over to where Alec dozed. He must have fallen asleep over some papers by the fire; a quill had tumbled over the letters in his lap and to the floor, leaving the floorboards speckled with ink.

Alec's head was tipped forward, his closed lashes still fluttering anxiously. Magnus already doubted there was a moment of the day Alec did not spend worrying. He was one of those people who even filled the gaps in their anxiety worrying over what it was they felt they were forgetting to worry about. Apparently those troubles now invaded his slumber, which annoyed Magnus.

He contemplated waking him only briefly before realising he very much liked the prospect of Alec spending the night in his chambers, even if it was not in the context he had been hoping for. As carefully as possible he lowered his furs to Alec's sleeping form until they blanketed him.

However Alec was not as deeply asleep as Magnus had assumed, and despite his best efforts the second the furs touched him the young lord leapt out of skin and back into consciousness.

"Forgive me," Magnus said hastily with soft urgency, "I did not mean to wake you."

Alec freed his hands from under the leopard spotted robe in his lap and stared down at the fur for a moment, in the perplexed state that could only be achieved by waking in surroundings you do not recall falling asleep in. He blinked his bleary blue eyes several times before seeming to properly take account of the man standing patiently before him. "Magnus-"

The man in question tried to ignore the not-altogether uncomfortable tightening in his chest caused by the rasp of Alec's still sleepy voice. "Yes?"

He rubbed at his eyes and attempted to smooth down his dark hair, "What hour is it?"

"Second after midnight"

"So late? Forgive _me_ , I did not mean to stay this long." Alec shifted his weight in the chair in his embarrassment.

Magnus laughed, "Fear not, for me this is relatively early."

"Is that so?" The edges of Alec's mouth threatened to turn upwards to a smile. Magnus sincerely hoped they did, since he rarely saw Alec's genuine, unrestrained smile and he hoped to remedy this in the future. He had heard of people's smiles lighting up their whole face before and dismissed it as a cliché, but recently he had come to the realisation he stood corrected. "Yes. Fear not, I am glad to see you here."

Alec was stunned at the prospect, "You are?"

"Oh yes. I have a bone to pick with you."

"Oh." Alec's face fell and for a moment it felt to Magnus the sky fell with it. He took care to accentuate the fact he was jesting in the next statement, "I could not help but noticing that your sister had a very nice gown on tonight, the kind that must have cost a pretty penny. I have also noticed, or rather failed to notice, that meanwhile you are wearing not a single one of the jewels or trinkets I have given you."

Alec's eyes plummeted to the floorboards and his fingers curled around the fur stole frantically- "Magnus," he tried for a light tone, which may have been able to sway Magnus had Alec been able to meet his eye, "Such things suit my sister better."

Magnus dropped to a his knees before him and peered up into his face, "If you disliked the gifts, why not say so?"

"I did like the gifts!" he attempted to protest, "It is as I told you, Isabelle liked them better."

"Well enough to translate their worth into a dress?" He kept the cynical edge of his tone as blunt as possible, "I am not displeased with you Alexander, just a little exasperated. I do wish that you and I can come to be honest with one another."

The pale skin at the other man's throat bobbed as he swallowed his own nervousness along with Magnus's reassurance and the question that lurked in it. "Why?" he demanded, eyes flying back to Magnus's, so blue and earnest that they never failed to steal his breath, and perhaps were beginning to steal something even more important. "Because we are such bosom friends?"

Magnus itched to reach out and grab his hands, but they had gotten to such a sensitive and important moment, so the last thing Magnus wanted to do was scare him again. "I don't believe that is strictly true. I doubt that even the closest of friends creep into one another's chambers in the small hours of the morning."

Alec blinked slowly, several times in the ensuing silence, perhaps trying to establish whether or not he had truly departed from dreaming.

Magnus could empathise, it was surely a mixture of the ebbing glow of a successful party and the flush of alcohol that had yet to fully fade that governed him now. Yet he had spent weeks and weeks treading carefully with Alec, initially because his very life could be forfeit if he got it dreadfully wrong. Even later, when he was sure the prospect of something real here, he had moved with caution as he did not want to break something as fragile and unforgettable as Alec Lightwood's heart before he even had it.

Indeed, Magnus Bane had packed a great deal of living into his years. He had learned to be selfish very early in life with the realisation that he had better be concerned with himself enough for the rest of the world, for no one else cared either about or for him. He had dwelt in this epicureanism for long enough and all but convinced himself that the shallowness and flightiness he had begun as protective pretence was truly who he had become. Now however, he was loath to merely take what he wanted from Alec and move on. Perhaps it was because all Alec ever did was care; be it for his sister, for his friend, even for his duty- It made one want to care for him in return.

In the poor light Alec's eyes seemed slivers of icy blue which were somehow warm and cold at the same time. In the time they had known one another, on the few small endeavours and tasks they had engaged in together they had accorded well. Alec had astounded Magnus by offering his services with balancing the books for the latest party, displaying a notable talent for handling numbers and extracting bargains from the city merchants: he had actually saved Magnus an ample amount tonight without dulling the celebrations even slightly. In turn, Magnus liked to think he had gradually been coaxing Alec out of his shell, he was growing bolder as a diplomat- now he spoke less as though he had carefully rehearsed his lines and was furiously thinking out every syllable. Magnus could almost imagine he was gradually thawing Alec as he subsequently sated the flames of Magnus' fervour and reigned him in a little- and not necessarily in a bad way. Contrary to all of that, by no means was Alec boring, or even predictable.

"Is that what we are? Friends?"

The quaver in his voice set Magnus trembling too, suspecting that the gruffness in Alec's tone was no longer simply the result of weariness. In turn, Magnus was close enough to appreciate the way Alec's dark pupils bloomed when he slowly shook his head in reply, "I think not."

For just a little longer the two kept their gaze locked, before Magnus decided to punctuate his admission before his nerve abandoned him. He lifted his hands to cradle Alec's face before at long last leaning in to capture his lips as he had longed to do for so long. In the moment immediately following the contact Alec remained completely rigid in the chair, and his lips were unmoving under Magnus's. Then, miraculously, the shock seemed to wear off and suddenly Alec was catching Magnus's bottom lip in his, before releasing him altogether and jerking back. The two simply stared at one another in the gloom and for the briefest second time seemed to stand still, then Alec reached out for Magnus again, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss, fingers tangling in his dark hair.

After that the sense of time passing became somewhat blurred and it was quite some time later, as the duo were sprawled in Magnus's bed (sadly nought had occurred beyond several more heated kisses) before Magnus remembered to return to the subject he had broached in the first place. He ran his fingers lightly along Alec's jaw and down his throat, subconsciously tracing the same path his lips had not long ago taken, peering up at him curiously. "Why the dress for Isabelle? Truthfully, Alexander. Why surrender your own gifts for yet another gown for her?"

He half-knew the answer already, but he wanted to hear it from Alec. Alec caught at the travelling fingers and softly kissed the fingertips he had clasped in his own shyly, dark lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks as he lowered his gaze once more, "It was the only way I could afford one for her. Had I denied her one she would have asked why we cannot afford it and I dare not tell her. They cannot know. Not her, for she would blame father for squandering our gold on women and cards and things are strained enough between the two of them. Not Jace, who has enough problems of his own." He sighed quietly, still speaking so softly and haltingly Magnus realised this was the first time he had acknowledged these problems aloud. He raised his eyes back to Magnus, "I am sorry I did not tell you before."

"I am sorry you must suffer it." Magnus shrugged, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth, "One rarely parades financial misfortune. I do not blame you for keeping secrets." He forcefully kept his tone bantering, though he did not fully conceal the solemnity behind it as he added, "But now I think we must add one more."

-00000000000000-

* * *

 _ **Amaranth Hall, Western Idris, Mid-August 1536**_

Uncharacteristically, Clary woke late in the morning, or rather afternoon as she suspected given the strength of the light behind the heavy eyelids she struggled to prise open. She lay awake yet wearily dazed for a few moments, staring up at the Angel emblem above that now adorned most of her possessions. They were the royal arms of Idris, and had been for hundreds of years. If it had belonged to anyone else's family Clary felt she might have laughed, for who in their right mind would even dream of aligning themselves with heaven in their badge? Surely only a lunatic king would have decided to claim to be half angel.

Yet it would seem Jonathan I had done just that, becoming the first king of the territory now known as Idris some seven hundred years ago. Apparently no one had laughed, and after many centuries, several plagues and one civil war it was Clarissa Morgenstern who found herself dining and sleeping under the same Angel and his divine instruments.

The ruling monarchs were still responsible for the cup and sword; the two gilded implements were presented to each new sovereign upon their coronation, whereupon they officially became responsible for them. Thereafter they were stored with the crown jewels in the most secure centre of the Gard, and Clary had never actually laid eyes upon them. She had read somewhere that they had a guard to rival her father's and were treated as the holiest of relics.

The Morgenstern family themselves had their own distinct coat of arms: a plummeting star with its trail of costly silver thread emblazoned on a black background. That too was more or less everywhere, painted over doorways and engraved in fireplaces.

Before a few nights ago Clary had never given a second thought to the bold, bright and therefore fresh paint that had been used, or ever remarked on the new stone that had obviously been specially purchased to hold the Morgenstern inscription. She knew that her family had taken its position by force, but only because the Herondale kings had grown lazy and too complacent to be effective rulers. The Morgensterns had done their country a great service by taking the heavy burden of kingship, not for selfish ambition but unwillingly out of a sense of duty, and because it had been the will of God. For He could only be reached by His true disciples through hardship and self-sacrifice, as Cardinal Enoch was fond of reminding his flock.

It made a pretty story, but Clary wasn't a child anymore, and no longer was she willing to hang her blind faith on the word of her tutor or chaplain. Anyone could see that her father was no paragon of virtue or nobility.

He had killed Jace's father. Treason was the most serious of crimes and had to be punishable by death, of course she knew that. Yet the man Valentine had condemned with his signature all those years ago had been a cousin, one he had grown up with and at one point supposedly loved as a brother. It was not altogether unlike the way her brother and Jace had been raised; although they had never gotten along and at least they were still open in their animosity.

King's pardoned traitors all the time. Clary doubted there was a monarchy in Europe who had never had a king who at one point experienced the treachery of a brother, son or cousin who wished to supplant them. But in more than one case, once the treason had been uncovered the punishment was not always necessarily death: Edward the IV of England for one had been lenient on his traitorous brother. Well, at least on the first offence.

Besides, even if Stephen's crimes had been so heinous as to warrant the death sentence, to leave Jace with absolutely nothing- not a single penny to his name- that was cruel. For God's sake, Valentine had raised Jace and apparently with enough fondness for Jonathan to have remained sorely jealous to this day.

Clary twisted the edges of her coverlet in her hands with her fretting, feeling the brocade trimming dig into her fingers. It was then she recognised what had woken her, the distinct drumming of water methodically striking wood. Releasing her blankets Clary slowly pushed herself upright and turned her head to the side. Sure enough, it was raining. And heavily, for little streams of water were pouring down the chequered glass and thudding in great droplets to the floor. One of the maids must have left the window open the night before, and the unexpected downpour had now begun to ruin her carpet, Clary observed. The trimmed edges were now sodden, and the once bright scarlet had turned into a much darker, morbid blood red. Clary, pushed the covers off her legs and rose, padding over to the window, and after battling with the latch for a moment drew it shut. She winced slightly as the wet material squelched under her bare toes, glad to back away to drier ground.

"Your Highness!" She started slightly at the sudden voice behind her, whirling to face Maia who lingered in the doorway, gripping her own fingers tightly over her stomacher. "You are awake! Good, I was sent to rouse you."

"Rouse me?" Clary felt a twinge of embarrassment, though it was no surprise she had failed to rise yet having slept so badly these past few nights. Between worrying about the fact that Jace had not spoken casually to since the tapestry incident and wondering what had prompted the court's sudden removal back towards the capital, Clary was indeed losing sleep. Without any warning the morning following her birthday she had woken to find her ladies in a whirlwind of packing once again, promptly being told that they were to be on the road by the following afternoon and to expect to return to Alicante in stages. It baffled her, usually her family avoided the city for as long as possible in the summer months. Depending on the heat, His Majesty could be absent from the capital until as late as the end of September. What on earth could prompt such a hasty retreat, which was being conducted as if they were still on regular progress? Clearly the Council were trying to maintain the appearance all was well, but something had them on edge.

"Sent by whom?" she currently enquired of Maia.

"The King has sent for you, Madam. He wished to see you on a matter of urgency."

Clary rubbed her hands against her arms desperately, trying to return some warmth into the limbs Maia's words had chilled. There was no good reason for her father to demand a meeting, so the uneasiness Clary had woken with intensified, and her empty stomach gave another ache. Nonetheless, one did not deny a summons from Valentine.

Which is why she found herself being escorted to her father's private rooms half an hour later, after being hastily laced into the pink gown she had stood for her portrait in.

Her heart flipped over in her chest and plummeted even further upon arrival in His Majesty's outer chamber, only to find a grey faced Jace standing off to one side in the practically deserted room, running the backs of his fingers along the underside of his jawline and slowly shaking his head back and forth. She realised then it was Alec who stood beside him, leaning on his shoulder and saying something in a low, intense voice. Jace just kept shaking his head and refusing to speak.

At the sound of her footfalls his eyes rose to hers briefly. His normally lively gaze had dimmed significantly, though the gold remained striking against his ashen complexion. Their eyes met for all of a heartbeat before his dropped again, Clary's heart subsequently began to beat even faster. He looked…devastated. There was no other word for that flat, grave expression. God, she longed to run to him and throw her arms around him. She had been itching to touch and speak to him anyway, but read the message in that sole stare perfectly: _stay away_.

Consequently, by the time she had passed through the doors and into her father's presence properly Clary was almost faint with fear. She recalled her disbelief that no one had discovered them amongst the prop avalanche and now she realised that may indeed have been too good to be true. One glance at her father's stern face only seemed to confirm her horror. She could bear exile, since she was not sure she enjoyed life at court anyway and the shame she supposed she could learn to live with- but Jace? If anything happened to him because of her...if he was harmed or worse as a result of what she had done…

Clary highly doubted that her father would care that she was the instigator and that it was at her insistence things had gone on as long as they had. Had she not been thinking just this morning that her father was a ruthless man?

"Clarissa," his voice resounded with what must have constituted softness for Valentine, catching her off guard. "Take a seat, daughter."

Tentatively Clary lowered herself into the proffered chair and Valentine in turn sat opposite her. Then, to Clary's greater astonishment he reached out and took her hands in his. His fingers were cool in hers,but the band of the ring on his index finger was curiously warm as it brushed her palm. Clary had noticed before that it was a nervous habit both Morgenstern men shared, pulling the family ring on and off their fingers subconsciously.

"I am afraid I have some sad news."

Clary waited, heartrate gradually slowing as Valentine kept watching her with the edge of pity in his black eyes, "I have just received word from France regarding the young Dauphin. I am sorry to tell you that he has recently perished at Chateau du Toumon."

"Perished?" Clary repeated incredulously, hearing and understanding his words, but not properly absorbing them. "He is dead? But how?! I was told he was in perfect health!"

"I am afraid so." Valentine paused, "That is why I have called you here to tell you in person. Clarissa, your betrothed was murdered."

"Murdered?" The rushing fear, then relief and now shock had left Clary extremely dizzy.

"By some agent of the Emperor I am told, and the guilty party has been arrested so you need not fear. But I did not want you hearing this from someone else, who may not give you the whole truth and needlessly distress you."

 _Needless distress?_ Clary wondered when her emotional well-being had become a concern of Valentine's, though she supposed her falling to hysterics would not help her marriage prospects.

 _Her marriage prospects_.

If Francois was dead, she would not be marrying him.

The game was on again, only this time… The seed of a potentially disastrous idea began to plant itself in Clary's mind. Dared she really make the first move in this new round?

Valentine, however, was still speaking, "The truth of the matter is you have no solid reason to fear a similar attempt on your life. France is at war with Spain, not Idris, and the match was never publicly announced. So beyond my privy council, the diplomatic party and whoever in your own household you told, no one will associate you with Francois Valois. Nevertheless, as a precaution I will be increasing security around you and a second food tester has been hired. I encourage you not to worry Clarissa." He paused again, but before she could steel her nerve to speak he tore on. "Again I express my sympathy. I am aware that out of all the matches you favoured the French. Yet I urge you to remain positive. It seems this particular marriage is not in God's plan for you." If Clary was not mistaken, the vague semblance of something like humour danced across His Majesty's features. "I urge you to remember that as my daughter you are a Morgenstern, and God does have a plan for you. A great destiny awaits, I am sure of it."

 _God or you, my lord?_ Clary wondered briefly, still reeling from the unexpected news while Valentine tightened his grip on her fingers with a brief squeeze.

Still being in shock could be the only excuse she had for the extraordinary way in which her tongue was now loosened. "Sire…"

Valentine looked to her with sharpened interest. He must have been able to read the feverish impulse on her face and seemed to eagerly await what may follow. "Speak freely Clarissa," he said, waving away the single man-at-arms standing by the doorway, who obediently backed out of the room and closed the door behind him.

Clary sat very still, heart thundering, suddenly conscious of the few inches between her face and her father's and the loud ticking of a clock somewhere in the room that was their only company. She had not been alone with Valentine since the day he had shown her the portraits of her suitors; she remembered looking for Jace in Francois, and he was on her mind in much the same way now. Valentine just kept staring at her with that same undiluted attention and she suspected he was looking for someone else in her too: looking for the wife that detested and feared him from so far away. Perversely, that encouraged her. Luke had told her that Valentine was still in love with her mother, and that even in the dying days of their marriage Jocelyn had been (on a personal level, Luke had added peculiarly) refused very little. Perhaps that too could work to Clary's advantage too. Now that she had Valentine's sympathy too there was surely some chance that her request may be granted.

"I am grateful for your attentions my lord, and as ever your kindness warms my heart." She began carefully, but once the words began the rest flooded out of her in a wild torrent, "And when you selected the Dauphin to be my husband I agreed to be obedient. I would have obeyed you and married him, because more than anything I wish to be a child you can be proud of, but…" She swallowed past the rising desperation in her faltering voice, "I beseech you to recall that then I would have unquestioningly wed the husband of your choice, but since all has changed- I wondered if my husband now might be a choice of mine."

Again the screaming silence returned. Valentine pulled his hand away from hers altogether and leaned back in his chair, eyes never leaving her. Clary resisted the urge to squirm, burying the fingers still wracked with tremors into her velvet lap instead and battled to keep her breathing even.

Then the tension broke.

Valentine threw back his head and laughed. "You would choose your own husband Clarissa?" He demanded when his amusement faded. "You would have me sit back and allow you free reign on the matter? And what would determine your choice, hmm? Riches? Good looks? _Love?"_

His mockery pierced her and before she knew it Clary had snapped back a retort, "And why should I not? Why should my choice be unreasonable? Have I not eyes and a working mind of my own? How then could I not measure a man just as well as you, since I have the necessary scales?"

"The necessary scales!" Valentine barked in return and for the first time Clary saw his perfect self-control shatter, in a burst of temper he leaned forward again, snatching her again by the wrist and this time with no pretence at consideration or gentleness. "You have no idea what is at stake here, you foolish girl! The trifles of a woman have no place in such matters, none at all!"

"Oh? Is that what you told my mother when you refused a princess to marry her for love?"

It seemed initially that the comment may well push Valentine to strike her, for an awful moment she could have sworn the notion crossed his mind before he withdrew it, clasping the soft skin at her wrist with increased vigour instead. His facial muscles tightened instead, and she watched him draw back his temper with some effort, "Clearly you are half-deranged with shock and grief. Perhaps you were fonder of the Dauphin than I realised, though I doubt it, even in spite of all your prying in the matter with Graymark when you thought my back was turned. The one thing I do know for certain is that you are your mother's daughter Clarissa."

A fresh, savage wrath sprang to his countenance now, and Clary suddenly felt like a six year old again. She found herself dredging up memories she had worked hard to forget. All at once she recalled crouching under a table, clutching a doll to her chest and trying to hum to herself over the tremendous argument her parents were having in the next room, the closed door doing very little to block out the shouting. She could remember the dread of recognising her mother had forgotten she was here, and could feel all over again the swamping anxiety as her father burst through those doors, catching sight of her hunkered position with the same storm whirling across his face then as she witnessed now. Ridiculous as it should have seemed, sitting before him presently she felt she were still six years old and petrified of her father.

"And preferable as you may deem that similarity to be, one cannot forget where she is now and where I am in comparison." Without warning Valentine realised her arm and Clary felt the blood and feeling surge back into her hand with painful relief.

"Get out," he growled, the abrupt dismissal spiking even further her alarm at having ruffled him so much. "And should you ever speak to me in that way again, you shall find your punishment so severe you will wish I had left you to rot away in that convent with your mother after all."

 _-0000000000000-_

* * *

 ** _A/N: Yikes._**

 ** _So... any ideas who Clary might be partially inspired by now...? Major clue bandied about here. :) Although I would emphasise those with a historical model are very much loosely based on that person. With Clary for example I borrow bits and pieces of women with similar personalities or in a similar scenario so that I could try and wriggle my way into the mind set, having never been in such circumstances myself; thankfully. Mary Stuart was not the only girl of the era who was pushed into an arranged foreign marriage, and the difference is that Mary of Scotland was not in love with someone else when she married the young Dauphin. (At least not that we know of). Aside from that, I realise Clary's reaction to the Dauphin's death may appear a little cold. But realistically she had never personally known the guy, and probably never would have had her father not chosen him as her future husband. So I don't think it's beyond the realms for her to have reacted in the way she did. After all, Francois was only a vague presence in Clary's life for a brief time when it seemed she would be pushed into an arranged marriage with him, so his death immediately signals to her the end of that arrangement and with it an element of- she hopes-freedom. His death has a much more profound personal impact on Jace because he did know him, well enough to consider the Dauphin a friend._**

 ** _My final note is on Malec; yes it is happening and I apologise for the lack of detail in that scene. But I want to do them justice, and I genuinely don't think Alec is the kind of guy who would want to go further than a make-out on the first occasion. There will be more malec goodness later, I promise. Now I feel I've babbled on long enough :) Again, no guarantees when the next instalment in the tale will be, I am currently just stress personified as exam season rapidly approaches. But I am super stoked for all that is about to unravel here, if I do say so myself ;)_**


	15. Things Better Left Unsaid

**_A/N: So I actually have a legitimate excuse(s) for disappearing off the face of the earth for the past while. Firstly, I considered admitting I was on exam hiatus and then dismissed that idea, because let's be real: I'm the sort of useless human whose failure to upload in weeks would not shock or alarm anyone :) And secondly.. (drum roll please) I actually broke my goddamn finger. Playing a highly intense, life or death game of- wait or it- snap. Only to me could this happen. I'll allow you guys a moment to let that sink in. So: context, I am currently typing a) partially obstructed by a splint and b) attempting to wean myself off painkillers._ _I would say that this is not up to my usual standard, but that would imply that I have standards... So yeah, sorry about so much- which is incidentally also the title of my autobiography._**

 ** _-_** _00000000000000-_

* * *

 _Things Better Left Unsaid_

 ** _Western lands/ road of Alicante, l_** ** _ate August 1536_**

Somehow both deep in thought and not really thinking at all, Jace crumbled the piece of bread between his fingers without having enjoyed a bite. He had sipped on the ale which had been its companion and some of the dried pork which also occupied the plate, but it all tasted so dreadfully dry that he had to concede that he had no appetite. Now he was resorting to tearing off strips of the small loaf, at first to try and delude Alec that he was eating and now was merely grinding it into tiny specs of white out of frustration. Now it could both look and taste like grit. It fell to little snowy hills on his plate, and around the rim in thinner piles, forming instead a light crust of dust.

Alec ceased frowning at whatever paper was to hand- starting to squint in the fading daylight- and started frowning at Jace instead. "One could simply send it back to the kitchen, rather than destroy it."

"I revel in the destruction" Jace grumbled, reaching for his drink again.

Alec rolled his eyes, "Speak, damn you. You never were one for silent moping Jace, and I can tell you are desperate for an opportunity to vent."

Jace only deigned to respond with a scowl, "Desperate, am I?"

"And not the only one," Alec muttered in reply, letting his papers forlornly flutter back to the table and he nudged them back into their wallet before allowing the cover to flop shut. He then rubbed his eyes, under which there had appeared darkening circles these past few days. "It is disheartening, to put it mildly, for all these efforts of ours to amount to nothing. Nothing other than our sister having caught the eye of the Prince as a potential whore, it would seem."

Jace might have flinched at the coldness of that assessment but instead felt a snide half-smile unwrap itself, "Well you hardly know that. Perhaps he has his father's penchant for common women and intends to have our dear Isabelle crowned." So foul was his mood that he decided to needle his friend further, "Surely the Prince's determination to befriend you while he was here indicates that an alliance between your families is not far off."

Alec's nose twitched at the suggestion, and the corners of his own mouth sloped glumly downwards "Now you sound like my mother." Then, after a pause he deflated even further, concluding bitterly, "We have been wasting the past five months of our lives, and they say that time is money. Money lost, in this case."

The exasperation which had coloured his friend's tone was more disheartening than anything, and Jace told him so, the beginnings of resentment beginning to lash in his own gut, "And since when has the pay check mattered so to you, Alec?" Alec shot him a rather furtive glance, but Jace was too annoyed to notice it, "With a young man in his grave, you are concerned with the expenses of our little sojourn here?" Alec glowered, but never got the chance to speak, for Jace tore on: "And not just any man but our one hope for a decent King of France. Everyone knows this new Dauphin is another pleasure-monger like his father, who will be ruled in all that he does by his own puffed up pride, sly ambition and the desires of his wily mistress Madame du Poitiers! Francois was a decent man who might have been a great king, and was certainly the only Valois I believed in."

Alec's annoyance hardened to foreboding, "Jace- what is it you are trying to say?"

Jace tossed his cup back to the table with an indignant clatter, thrust his hands into his hair and lurched anxiously forward onto his elbows. "What am I trying to say? Well to put it plainly I do not want to go back to that crowned womanizer, nor his ungrateful son Henry, nor indeed his Medici viper of a daughter in law who is sure to be exulting in all this!"

A low whistle tore through Alec's lips and his eyes shot to the door, which remained closed, "Unfortunately neither you nor I have a choice. King Valentine is not inclined to favour anyone these days, least of all me, and so I have to go back to my native land and fling my hopes on those of the King of France. So must you. There will be no fleur de lis in Clarissa Morgenstern's trousseau."

"But that is the very heart of the matter," Jace raised his head to look Alec in the eye, all frustration gone and his speech now low in timbre and grave in tone; "France is not my native land."

What little colour had been in Alec's tired, ashen face drained from it, "You cannot mean that."

"I do, for little else has been on my mind since it happened. Damn me to hell if you wish, but I am that selfish. I have no wish to serve France any longer, not with the prospect of a monarch I could respect and sincerely serve gone. I do consider appealing to Valentine, so that he might agree to keep me as a permanent ambassador and his continuing link with the court of France. At best, I pray I have the courage to request he consider my application to repossess at least some of the lands which belonged to my father. Considering that I have served his family, his daughter-"

" _That_ is the heart of the matter," Alec interrupted, voice even lower than Jace's, blue eyes blank and dour, the only note of emotion being the continued twitch to his nose, "his daughter."

"Alec-"

"No! I will hear no more of it, no more of this _nonsense_. You cannot stay with her Jace, you know that. You dare not entertain for a mere second any thoughts that suggest otherwise. Married to Francois she may not be, but her father has grand designs on her and her legacy, that much he has told me, in those very words. I can see it is likely too late for me to tell you that you cannot love her, but surely even at that you can see your-" he snorted bitterly- "love is doomed. She is going to marry a prince, not an ambassador- not even an _Idrisian_ born ambassador. And I am sorry Jace, that the truth of this must hurt, but this is no new revelation! You know where you stand at this court and it is far, _far_ below her."

Jace shot to his feet, ears ringing as if his friend had boxed them with his fists rather than facts. The stool beneath him was knocked backwards, greeting the rough wood of their chamber floor with a scraping bang. "If you knew a damn thing about-"

Alec too got up hastily, a fresh thought of panic pouring from him: "Tell me you have not sullied her."

Jace broke off on his retort, "What?"

"Tell me you did not bed her Jace, for the love of God and all that is holy."

Colour sprang to the accused's cheeks, "No," he snapped aggressively, "I am not such a fop."

Alec exhaled sharply, "Then you must admit that you do recognise, in knowing your life is forfeit for such a thing, that this is where you brief dalliance with the lady ends. And that as far as the rest of the world is concerned, it never happened at all."

"God, it must be such a delight to you, this shining and clean cut crystal that is your own image, your own reputation. You really are a paragon of the dutiful son and the humble servant."

A cloud passed over Alec's blue eyes, his head lowered and his brows dipped into a defensive frown, "You know not what you are saying. You would not understand what it is to value what I value, to want what I want. All because you are still a petulant child, who blames everybody else when aught goes wrong, who cannot take responsibility for a single thing and cannot see the danger in his actions. You are still the sort of immature fool who cannot see where the pages of the novel ends and where real life starts. You think there is something heroic in loving her, do you not? You are so blind that you think she would thank you for getting yourself killed for love of her?!"

In that moment, for the first time in all the years he had known him, Jace wanted to strike Alec Lightwood. He wanted to lay his hands on him then his fists- but it lasted only a second however, and when that one torrent of utter rage ebbed away all Jace wanted to be out of this room, and away from the words he kept hearing which would not stop making sense.

"At least I know what it is to act on love. To truly, deeply want something. All you will ever do is what you are told, and you will only want what you are expected to want; an heiress, your castle, the ear of the King. I doubt there has been a moment where you put your heart in anything."

The way in which Alec flinched made Jace wonder if he may as well have swung for his friend, and to his surprise at that it was Alec who strode for the door as fast as he could. His furious exodus saw him snarling a parting curse at Jace and almost colliding with the serving girl sent to reclaim the plates of the supper that had not been properly eaten, before finally slamming the door.

If only it were true that Jace could not see the damage of his actions.

 _-0000000000000-_

* * *

Exhaling as subtly as possible, Luke Graymark dabbed at the beads of sweat on his forehead with his kerchief and tried to keep his expression interested. He had been attending them for almost twenty years now and yet these damn council meetings never got any more bearable, especially not when was roused at the first trace of summer dawn and hauled to the chamber for yet another emergency meeting, despite it being barely the fifth hour after midnight. However, it would not do to be seen fidgeting like a crabby child trying to delay bath time. He had a purpose here, he reminded himself, as another trickle of sweat dribbled down the back of his neck. _Her_ purpose.

At least with sessions within the Clave there were high vaulted ceilings, plenty of windows and dozens of clamouring voices trying to be heard, which meant that few were monitoring his every move, unlike the King's private Council chamber. Though he doubted that even the Clave's buildings would be tolerable in this heat. The heatwave seemingly had broken, but it was still desperately clammy between storms and the surrounding skies were filled with the grumblings and growling of approaching thunder.

Despite years of being at the centre of this court Luke knew he would never consider himself aught but a country lord, through and through. The disputes of the representatives from the counties around Alicante and their gripes, which tended to dominate Clave proceedings, were of far greater interest to Luke. However, during the days when the sun had rose and set on Valentine Morgenstern, Luke had been so eager to please that he discovered his own aptitude for dealing with the political intricacies of the King's privy council; hence his seat. A seat which much to his external and internal discomfort, he still held.

"I sent word to the Prince at Edom as you had asked, Sire, though I only received a response yesterday," Starkweather was currently reporting in his customary clipped, dispassionate tone. "The enquiries I made amongst his household could only reveal that His Highness had been off with no one besides Sebastian Verlac in his company, I know not where, until a week hence. He spoke little of where he had been but did assure my man that he would return to Alicante and wait for us there." Starkweather's cheek twitched slightly as he proceeded to do his damndest to shield himself from his own ignorance, "I am sure here is no cause for concern, my lord. The prince is young..." he tried for a spark of humour, "Long ago as it may seem to younger eyes, we were all of us two and twenty once." The surrounding table of the King' closest companions and greatest peers in the realm chuckled obediently, even Luke forced his mouth upwards to a smile, spurring Starkweather on with an ounce of confidence. "I daresay we are better off not knowing where and what Prince Jonathan and his friend are doing."

Valentine did not look convinced, leaning back and running his thumb over the carved armrest of his chair at the head of the table. "Better off not knowing?" He echoed, and at the sinisterly quiet, meditative tone whatever dregs of nervous laughter still lingered instantly melted. "Need we remind you that Jonathan is our only son? The only Morgenstern heir?"

 _Besides Clary,_ Luke added silently.

"How then, could allowing my son to disappear into thin air not be cause for alarm Starkweather?" In the strained silence his head then snapped to the side to eye Pangborn, "Not to mention the alarmingly apparent inadequacy of the spy network which you run for me." Pangborn gaped uselessly, swallowing air frantically as he failed to form words while Starkweather dropped his head to the papers piled before him with some more composure.

Unfortunately Pangborn did recollect the ability to speak, and foolishly used it to protest; "Majesty, no one knew that the Prince was planning to leave his estate at Edom-"

 _Wrong move,_ Luke hissed under his breath as Valentine's ire exploded.

That proud idiot should have known better than to challenge the King around whom the Council was already treading on hot coals. The situation so fraught with danger already, with this new threat to his crown- the first coherent one that had arisen in years- Valentine was like a cornered bear. "We pay you good money, our money, and plenty of it to make sure that _someone_ knows Pangborn!" The King roared. "If you cannot manage that, one of the few tasks we give you then you are of no use to us whatsoever. You think that we cannot find a dozen more where you came from with ease, you spineless, snivelling idiot?!" It was at moments like this that Luke considered whether a total outsider would find the sight of these supposedly powerful, fully grown men all cowering like frightened schoolchildren dreading a whipping from the dissatisfied master. But Valentine's anger was no laughing matter. This was a king who had driven the love of his life into sanctuary, ordered the deaths of many a once treasured friend and whose power knew very few bounds.

A white faced Clary had admitted to Luke only days ago that she had displeased the King greatly, and that alone made Luke want to melt back into the background altogether. Yet that merely signified that he had ground to recoup here, as far as Jocelyn was concerned. And though Clary herself had sealed her lips over what the rift between herself and her father might have been Luke reminded himself to learn a lesson from Pangborn's failures; he had put Maia in the girl's train for a reason, and her lips were not supposed to be sealed on anything. Luke was supposed to hear from her all that went on behind the closed doors of the ladies household. He added another mental note to speak to Maia and remind her of such duties.

For now, Valentine's temper was eventually subsiding and his shoulders slackened, "If we relied entirely on you fools we would prove a sorry monarch indeed. From now on eyes never leave my son, is that understood? Everyone he meets, everywhere he goes, Jonathan does so at our knowledge, if not at our command."

"Your concern is understandable, Your Majesty," the Earl of Chene began tentatively, "And such a careless lapse of attention will never occur again, but with respect, I feel compelled to point out that the Prince is no child. He is in his majority and legally we cannot bind him so."

Reliably, at the stirrings of another fit of wrath, the Duke of Lyn leapt in to defend his friend. Jack and Jill, Jocelyn was wont to have called them when she was in a scornful mood, or perhaps Castor and Pollux were she in a finer one. "Indeed, he is- though I pray not for many years yet- our future king. Surely he should be given some liberty? Your Majesty is yourself emphatic that for the sake of his future rule Jonathan is not to be coddled. It does not seem right, nor perhaps especially wise then, to restrain him so."

 _Not especially wise,_ the poorly chosen words provided Luke with the chance be needed, and hastily steeling himself he leapt into the discussion before Valentine would lose his sense of self-control altogether and sign all their death warrants. "My lord of Lyn, surely you see that His Majesty's orders are beyond wisdom? At a time like this, even assured of the imminent crushing of these rebels as we are, to allow the Prince's whereabouts to become suspect is the worst kind of folly. Yes, at a time of peace we can afford to allow our heir to indulge in a bout of youthful foolhardiness, and in the future when order in this land is restored Prince Jonathan should be left free to conduct his affairs as any adult man might, practicing his skills of government at will. At this very moment however, the matter of paramount importance is to ensure that the royal family are protected from this rabble until they are defeated." Now Luke allowed some acid top creep into his tone, "After all, I was under the impression that we were gathered to discuss how best to restore order in the counties."

Luke did not need to turn his head to feel the glimmering warmth of Valentine's approval. As if he were not aware that the only reason he held a seat on this council in the first place was to support the King in all that he did. Once, in his naivety he had thought he might use his position to make a difference; that even if Jocelyn was not to his bride then at least as Valentine's they might steer Idris into a golden age together. Now he knew better. He was no different than all the rest of these parrots in their robes of state, if not perhaps a more articulate one.

Despite himself, Luke had to admit he was rather pleased with his own little speech, crafted impressively and delivered on short notice upon the tongue of man who doubted Valentine's cold sadist of a son had ever done a foolish thing in his life, and often wondered if Idris would not be better served if its Crown Prince had a noose around his neck instead of the gilded collar his father might supply. Try as he might, Luke could never fully bring him to accept that Jonathan was as much Jocelyn's child as Clary. The gurgling, sweet baby boy that the woman he loved had once bounced on her knee and blown kisses to as he was carried away on a nursemaid's hip had been taken and warped by Valentine.

Even now Jocelyn feared that her boy had become a second Valentine, swearing that the son she should have had was dead to her and Valentine had killed him, playing his wicked games and destroying the child that had once existed in order to try and build his ideal heir. Luke had never, not once in the past ten years, had the heart to tell her that Jonathan was much worse than Valentine.

She had to kill the memory of her son to prevent Valentine doing the same to her daughter, she had told him once. That had never fully settled with Luke, since Valentine had barely glanced at Clary in her infancy, content to leave the raising of her up to her mother until she could be married, while he took full responsibility for the upbringing of their son. There was some other reason, if not several, that Jocelyn had been so determined to leave.

Presently, Valentine dropped his chin forward until he propped it up on the top of his clasped fingers. "Indeed, my lord of Aconite." His dark eyes flickered around the table before he added in a gruffly meditative undertone, "Would that my son's whereabouts of late were such a mystery."

Luke was yanked out of his ponderings by the comment. He knew that Valentine was far from blind to his son's many poor and dangerous qualities, if anything he was more keyed into them than anyone. If Valentine suspected as Luke did, that Jonathan had played some part in the destruction of a French alliance... but why? Why stoop to such cold blooded measures to end his sister's betrothal? It made so little sense that Luke had to contemplate that Jonathan might have assisted in the murder of the Dauphin simply because he could.

Valentine dropped his hands and hastened on with matters before anyone could press him as to what he meant. "What news of- should I deign to call these ruffians rebels?" For a man who refused to even acknowledge the hordes of unhappy peasants currently marching throughout his lands toward his capital- to which the lords themselves were hurrying to return to and defend- he was certainly giving the impression that he was worried.

The ensuing report came from the flushed Marques of Edgehunt, Penhallow stating bluntly that the peasant forces in the south and east had now crossed his own lands, and with the mirroring force in the north they were closing the net on the capital city.

Though he may feign contempt, Valentine was so short tempered and uneasy these days that Luke saw, for the first time in years, Valentine Morgenstern was afraid. He so revelled in his role as the grand puppeteer, who knew exactly what strings to pull on every man he surrounded himself with to ensure they did his bidding, that whenever events spiralled even slightly out of his control he struck out at anger and when that wore off took a sharp turn to panic. To anyone who had not known the King for as long and as well as Luke, the two may be difficult to distinguish between.

What had Valentine perpetually in a bad temper these days, and saw his hand never stray more than a few inches from his blade, was the unprecedented repercussions of what he assumed would be a quick solve to a mild problem when he had allowed Oldcastle to burn. It would appear that with their own residences smoking the citizens had simply travelled to the nearby villages with their discontent and there had found many a kindred spirit. This much they knew because the peasantry appeared to have roused themselves and decided that with their pitchforks they would march upon Alicante (their rude ignorance obvious in their failure to comprehend that the King was not yet at Alicante) and demand that henceforth the King's justice should be _just_.

Not altogether a ridiculous demand, though what should have been a ridiculous mouthpiece had proved much harder to quiet than the King had at first assumed. The rustic force should have been scattered and sent back to their homesteads by the local authorities and county sheriffs. The difficulty there being that many of those on the march did not have homesteads to return to, and the treatment of Oldcastle had been one outrage too may for much of the Idrisian lower classes.

The initial uncouth displays of indignation of burning property and maiming livestock had quickly and suspiciously evolved, emerging from Broceland as this military march with clear demands. Worse, contrary to expectations some of the local landlords and knights had sided with the rebels. And so they should be considered as rebels before the Council. Not that Valentine's pride would ever allow that.

There were also rumours that some of the greater lords had not reacted with the proper horror and fury upon learning of the events, while the lowlier court members were not to know of the disturbances at all- out of fear that their sympathies with the rebel cause might be such that they chose to assist it. It had never occurred to Valentine that the women of the court, the first of whom was Clary, may need to be aware of the situation. Such things were not women's troubles, he would presume. Luke had toyed with the idea of telling Clary, then dismissed it. On one level, the upheaval in her personal life had her uneasy enough, and on another Luke felt he knew her well enough now to expect that armed with such knowledge Clary was not the sort to sit idly on it. Strained as things already were with her and Valentine, the wisest course was to leave her exactly as he desired. Ignorance was supposed to be bliss.

Still, the mob were now armed with better weapons, marching in a more sophisticated fashion and had this cunning fox of a King bolting back to his den.

And why? Because someone had harnessed this agrarian agitation, some faceless threat that had Valentine fearing and suspecting everyone. That was bad enough, but in the more recent reports it had emerged that this threat was no longer necessarily nameless.

The mysterious link between the instigators of this anger and its supporters was becoming more obvious; the link which had persuaded them to raise banners and a war chant, like a real army might. And though they claimed to be first and foremost designed to make the King dismiss his "false and mistaken advisors" and not a rising against the crown itself, it had surfaced the name being bandied about the lips of these would-be rebels was Herondale.

 _-000000000000000000_ -

* * *

As far as Isabelle was concerned, this was not the worst thing she had ever done. Surely it was upon the list of many things that would prevent admittance beyond the pearly gates, but it did not top that list.

Simon Lewis was, undeniably, an inordinately sweet boy. Sweeter than should care to spend his days on the likes of Isabelle Lightwood, and surely much sweeter than should care to share his lunch. Yet here they were late on Sunday afternoon, relaxing in the grounds of one of the King's many hunting lodges where they had temporarily halted; sipping some of the wine Isabelle had spirited from her brother's chambers and nibbling the bread and cheese Simon had pilfered from the pantry. From the hilltop that they currently occupied it was possible to watch the various smoky splashes of clouds chase one another across the sky. Sadly they all too often screened the sun, and seemed to be growing more frequent as the afternoon wore on. Perhaps the good Lord was playing the role of Isabelle's conscience, and threatened to send more rain to halt her using of the trusting boy before her.

Nearby the horses they had "borrowed" without necessarily seeking the correct permission cropped contentedly at the grass and occasionally whickered their satisfaction. It was something of a relief to get out of the house, with Jace moping about as though the world were ending, Alec panicking as to what was to become of them and Clary drifting about her own rooms in a state of shock as the court was harried from house to house on the road back to Alicante. If Izzy did not know better she would assume the very hounds of hell were on their hells. No one seemed inclined to enquire. Nonetheless, the one thing Isabelle had heard for certain was that the Crown Prince was due to be recalled to court. With that reunion to dread and the realisation that Jace and Alec had been recalled to Paris without her, Isabelle had not been in the finest spirits. So, guilty as she might feel about spending time with Simon, his suggestion they come out here for some fresh air and peace had been too attractive an offer, and Isabelle had seized it.

Initially, courting Simon's attentions had ben nought but one of her all too familiar ploys to get her father's attention. She had hoped, as had been accomplished by her unsuitable sweethearts in the past, word would reach her father and the incensed Count would immediately remove her from the situation. She had also initially hoped to use someone who had not an ample enough contingent of feelings to be wounded when they realised that she was using them; namely Prince Jonathan. Unfortunately his long absences from the court, and the many preoccupations he had while he was here, made such a scheme impossible to execute. Meanwhile, the naive young musician had provided the perfect backup plan.

However now she found herself in an increasingly tense predicament; despite the fact that her grand escape was no longer required she was still seeking out Simon, and leaping at the chance to go on picnics with him. Although Isabelle was not prepared to admit as much, even to herself, she was beginning to like him. And by that she meant his presence was tolerable, and his countenance slightly pleasing. Nothing more. Of course.

Moreover, with Clary's friendship (the first real friendship she had ever had with another girl, and of which she was still learning, mercifully alongside her new friend who had never had such a relationship before either) she was beginning to find herself almost at home in Idris.

One had to admit; it was ironic that upon arrival at this court she had been determined to escape it, only to find that she would rather stay in Clarissa Morgenstern's train than set foot in Adamant ever again. But as the months had passed and she had grown accustomed to this new way of life, she had come to almost enjoy it. Besides, when one thought about it, the alternative of her parents' house was much worse: being suffocated by her mother's unending rules and expectations, and her father's refusal to try and accept his daughter might be a person and not a problem/threat that had to be removed and married off as soon as possible.

Her father had sworn to her that she would never be back at the French court for as long as there was breath in his body, and though when the threat had been issued Isabelle had not believed him, over the months that had elapsed her lord's wroth showed no signs whatsoever of relenting. Isabelle had been forced to admit that perhaps this time she had gone too far. In recent years she had thrived off picking confrontation with her sire, in dressing in a way that would annoy him, being a determined spendthrift and allowing herself to be seen with unacceptable boys. It had driven Alec almost as insane as it had their father, and for that she had been sorry; but she had been doing it for him too. And even for Jace, in a way. For as long as she remained the difficult child and Alec the reluctantly dutiful and perpetually awkward, Jace's talents (which were obvious at the best of times) were illuminated. While her parents were diverted trying to prevent her from destroying what remained of their reputation and persuade Alec to make any kind of public appearance, Jace proved a balm to their ambitions. Handsome, charming, charismatic, witty and ambitious he had proved exactly the kind of child they would have wished for. It put them in the best possible position to approve of and encourage him, and at last he might have the experience of a family who appreciated him.

Jace was unrelentingly hard on himself, nothing he could do was ever good enough for himself and as far as Isabelle was concerned that was Valentine's fault. It had been ingrained in him all his life that he was too weak, too slow, too soft. Isabelle feared that Jace would never come to accept himself, or see that his first foster father's expectations were unrealistic, but at least allowing him to know what parental approval felt like from the Lightwoods would be a good place to start.

As Simon serenaded her it was possible to at least stage an admirable attempt to forget all such things. He strummed away while she sipped her wine and allowed a small smile to cross her face. He really was not so bad to look at, and his focusing on the strings his fingers danced over left her free to watch him unwatched. He did have nice, clear skin, albeit a little pasty. There were a few freckles on his nose which were oddly endearing, and his dark fringe was growing out and constantly had to be brushed out of his eyes which she was also finding quite adorable. They were a pleasant shade of brown, lighter than his hair and her own near black irises. They reminded Isabelle of roasted hazelnuts, and were shot through with flecks of darker brown rather than green or blue, which she supposed was typical Simon; consistent to the last breath. And God knew, she had little enough consistency in her life.

This could be what she needed, someone she could rely on at this court, especially since her brothers were soon to be gone. While she knew she could entrust most things to Clary, her station would render her more powerless than powerful in the future, whereas Simon would always be free to do as he pleased, as long as he could perform a ballad on request. There was a great deal of freedom in being nobody.

Isabelle's scrutiny of his features may not have gone entirely unnoticed, for Simon lifted his chin and grinned slowly, "You are not listening."

Isabelle shrugged and tilted her head backwards, letting her eyes flutter shut and pretended to sun herself, the facade of nonchalance significantly undermined by the blanket of dreary cloud swathing the sky. "To men? I never do."

Simon chortled, Izzy cracked her eyes open somewhat to watch his setting the lute aside and stretching out on his side, propped up by an elbow. "How problematic. Not to mention hurtful, as I laboured ceaselessly to compose that tune which conveys my very soul."

She looked at him directly over her shoulder. "Simon, I know you did not compose Greensleeves."

"Ah. There you have me." She rolled her eyes and snickered, but this time her amusement was not mirrored. "But in truth, you look as though you are deep in thought. You could speak to me, of you wished."

A pause, then- "I would not know where to begin," Isabelle sighed.

"Nor would I, I suppose, were I asked."

Isabelle's eyed him again, with more avid interest. "What do you mean by that?"

This time when Simon smirked at her there a cynical edge to it, "You think yourself so enveloped in secrets, Isabelle Lightwood, that no one notices you have them. That is not true. I have always seen that there is something you are hiding."

For once, Izzy was utterly speechless. She could not believe, nor was she prepared to accept that this, her chosen diversion and what was supposed to be the most flighty, insubstantial relationship of all was about to hold a serious conversation.

Simon straightened slightly. "I am not going to press you," he said, in the kind of tone one might adopt in dealing with a spooked animal they did not want to bolt. "I am simply saying, I have secrets of my own."

She swallowed another swig of wine, alarmed to find her dry throat ached, "I prefer your usual witless banter."

If she was not mistaken, he was disappointed. Well what had he thought to expect? That she might bare herself to him at the first invite? There were things she was not prepared to tell even Alec; like that she knew fighting a future of marriage and trying to make her own way was a doomed battle in this world, that she was afraid of what might happen when her parents did not reconcile, that though it was her father's own faithlessness that caused the fall out she blamed herself for telling her mother of it, how she sometimes wondered that if she had not made life in their family so difficult her father may never have strayed. How could she even begin to explain she had watched Clary fall in love so easily and part of her had been intrigued and part repulsed? That she would never trust anyone enough to surrender her heart to them, let alone her future. She believed that no one would be able to love her, aside from perhaps Alec and Jace who were family and had to love her.

She was saved from having to dismiss Simon any further as the first laden drops of rain started to fall. He lunged to protect his lute, and by the time it was safely bundled up the shower had turned to a downpour. She had to laugh, as the duo scrabbled about to collect their things and charge for the nearest copse of trees, her laughter was finally, stutteringly echoed by Simon. Her merriment only escalated as they stumbled and constantly dropped the belongings and scraps of food and bottles that overflowed their arms. Cursing and giggling she finally made it to the vague leafy shelter and turned to face Simon.

She must have looked a sight, clothes sodden and cap askew, but his laughter paled away as he reached out and prised away a soaked strand of hair that had stuck to her cheek. His fingertips were a glancing warmth against her skin, and the sudden intensity with which he looked at her now sent her breath skidding to the back of her throat.

"Isabelle-" he began solemnly, and at that the numbing panic wore off to one of frantic action. She reached out for him, grabbing at his damp collar and hauling his hot lips to hers, silencing and distracting him the only way she knew how.

 _-0000000000000-_

* * *

These days, Clary's things rarely left their cases. There were no more state dinners and no more revels. The past week had been one relentless haul toward her capital city, and much of what she possessed was still miles behind amongst the baggage train she had not spotted in several days. Not that she required anything, since there were no more reasons to dress up, and she was hardly in any location long enough to require diversions. It had her exhausted, and no one would tell her why this haste was so necessary. She did not doubt that it was, her father was not a whimsical man and, for the most part a rational one. He was not one to startle himself at shadows, yet something here had him spooked.

Clary had only glimpsed Valentine at mealtimes and prayer services, and they had not spoken intimately since the incident. Immediately after it, there had been no outward sign that he was still angry with her, for he had greeted her calmly, if not coolly, since. Yet she still felt the tension crackling between the two of them as clearly as she saw the bright fissures of lightening split the sky these nights, and was in no doubt that while her father might be diverted at present, he was not prepared to forgive her. It had been almost a week and still Clary's heart stuttered when he met her gaze and had to prevent herself from tensing when he walked past. She could not convince herself she was being ridiculous. Yes, on one hand it seemed that as her father's only daughter she was the most and only valuable currency he had with which to purchase a foreign alliance, but on the other she knew that unless he thought her an easy pawn to work through he would decide her not worth the bother of wrangling out negotiations and send her back to the convent.

That Clary was not willing to risk. Miss her mother she might, but she did not miss the huge walls of the order which had sheltered and stifled her. She had always dreamed of what might lie beyond Broceland forest, and she and Simon used to concoct plans of how they might run away and discover that world.

Now she was free, and more a prisoner than ever. Even as shackled as she was to her father's schemes, at least there was a prospect of liberty. Once married she could have her own household in the very least; and even an uncertain future meant a kind of hope.

If only her present private situation was a little less uncertain than the public. But since the passing of her betrothed Jace had not said more than a string of words to her, to offer his condolences in a clipped, reserved tone and then drift away. She did not fear that he had forgotten her, surely no more than she had forgotten him.

A suspicion that was soon proved to her. After some tentative questioning of Isabelle Clary had learned that the situation was precisely what she feared. She was not the only one with her bags packed, although she did not share the same destination as the rest of the French embassy. Izzy had been quick to assure her that she intended to remain in her service, but since there were no more prospective husbands for her in France, Jace could not hope to do so.

But she had not expected him to part without a goodbye. Not until a suspiciously damp Isabelle had hurried into her chambers on Sunday afternoon baring the worst news possible, the drooping feather from her hat dripping balefully onto the floor as she hissed in her ear that Wayfarer was saddled in the courtyard.

"He cannot be leaving! Not this very day!"

"He might be," Isabelle corrected grimly, making a show of sniffing a dab of new scent which she splashed on a kerchief and raised to her mouth, screening her lips and muffling her words so no one save Clary might hear them, "He has left in such haste before, Clary. Our- his master is at war. Since the new Dauphin is already married there is no deal to broker here, and King Francois will want every diplomat he has at hand while he continues to fight Spain. He will need the likes of Jace's skill at his disposal to deal with such pressing matters. "

Clary shot her a panicked look, ignoring Maia's curious expression and her attempts to sidle closer to the other two girls. "He would not go without telling you."

"He has done before," Isabelle shrugged, "and if Alec was not leaving with him immediately, as he sometimes does not, then he would be content to let Alec say the goodbyes."

"To me?" Clary demanded, aware that the pitch of her voice was something of a whine, "He would not go without saying goodbye to me?"

Her lady shot her a look of unmistakable pity, "Mayhap it would be better that way Clary. Goodbye is always painful, and beyond that he could struggle to find a suitable reason to see you."

At this point, Clary was sick of the whole charade. She no longer cared what people thought of her being too friendly with an embassy, and she no longer cared that she was already on thin ice with her father. She _needed_ to see him.

"Do you need some assistance, Your Highness?" Maia enquired, at last daring to address her mistress.

Clary barely spared her a glance, "No." She rose from her seat and tossed her prayer book aside, the sudden rise disturbing her ladies. Aline and Helen glanced up in surprise from their sewing and one of her newer additions, Julie Beauvale, clumsily broke off her playing of a small harp. All questioning eyes were on Clary, and she waved away their silent inquisition with a vague sweep of her right arm. They had made to rise with her, but at her frantic gesture had to flop awkwardly back into their seats. In fact, Julie missed her stool and floundered until her backside hit the floor, which might have been amusing had Clary not been in a blind panic.

"Just a moment," she gasped faintly, then charged out the door.

Certainly things grew more farcical, as her unprecedented exit also startled the guards at her door, and the only indication she had of their shock was the distinct clamour of metalwork as the seized pikes and knives and whirled round looking for an assailant, the closest thing to which proved to be the normally impeccably dressed and carefully behaved Isabelle Lightwood, who barrelled out the door after her.

Bareheaded and still trailing a small river of rainwater after her flicking train, not unlike a snail, Isabelle soon caught up to Clary on her longer legs. "Princess!" she panted through gritted teeth, "What the devil do you think that you are doing?!" She tried to catch at Clary's flapping sleeve and halt her, but Clary somehow managed to disentangle herself and continue her quest, still half-blind with the fear she might be too late.

The Princess darted out into the stable yard, and without a trace of grace splashed her way through a muddy puddle and was almost trampled by a stallion which was being led across the yard and finally spied the dappled coat she had been looking for. Beside him was the distinctive figure of Jace Herondale, the set of his shoulders and ease with which his hands flew over the various straps and buckles of tack making him instantly identifiable. Clary doubted it was only the recent dash which had her heart hammering now, as she crossed the final few paces to Wayfarer's neck.

"Jace" He glanced up briefly from where he had been inspecting the tightness of his girth, then turned away again only to whirl incredulously back to her when the realisation sunk in. "What in God's name are you doing?!"

"What in God's name are _you_ doing?" she fired back planting her hands on Wayfarer's strong neck, as though the touch and sheer force of her will could keep him and his rider where they were.

"You should not be here. People will talk, those grooms are already doing so."

"Let them."

"Izzy is but over there, Clary you must go back to her. Now." He tried to turn her away from the horse, steering her with the screen of his body as best he could without bodily grabbing her and dragging her back to Isabelle. Despite how she might behave, she was still the King's daughter, and he was not permitted to lay a hand on her, not unless invited to.

"No." she said more firmly, "Jace, do not leave me. Do not make me put you aside."

His eyes flickered around her face, as they had done before, but this time it was more than not meeting her eye. This time it gave more the impression of how he was trying to memorise every feature; the exact shape of her nose, every freckle on it. "I doubt there is a man alive who could make you do anything. Better men than me have tried and failed, that much I do know." The dryness to his voice failed to move her any, for it still took every scrap of her self-control to keep her hands stroking Wayfarer rather than clutching Jace and holding him to her.

"Please," she whispered instead, astonished that he heard her over the cacophony of the stable yard; the clatter of hooves, booming voices and rasping hiss of a brush somewhere sweeping up stray strands of hay. At least not all life had come to standstill at her presence, she knew there were still some of the grooms and their lads nudging one another and muttering unabashedly, but the lack of a total silence enabled her to continue speaking to Jace, her petite frame disguised from most prying eyes behind Wayfarer's bulk.

"I cannot stay here. Clary, I will not stay."

"Will not?" she echoed, not bothering to disguise the pain that remark had caused her. Jace threaded his fingers through the sagging reins and looked away from her. "Life goes on. I could stay, but I will not. There are too many ghosts here. And besides, even the present hurts. Surely you realise that for your father's plans this is naught but a stumbling block. Already behind closed doors they are whispering of a new suitor." Now he looked at her, earnestly and nakedly, as he dared not look at anyone else. "You deserve honesty. The honesty I could not give your betrothed- my lord- when he lay on his deathbed and I showered his bride with kisses." The raw guilt and the self-loathing was painful to hear, his voice cracked and Clary could imagine the crash of shattered glass as it struck the floor. The harshness of his words struck home for the first time, and Clary realised that Francois Valois had not been a sombre oil painting for both of them. Betraying him may have meant nothing to her, in fact she had never regarded what she was doing with Jace to be a betrayal at all, but the same was not true for Jace.

"I shall try now to be honest enough for both of you. I cheated my friend and prince and I will have to live with that, but staying here, watching you marry someone else? A stranger? That I could not live with. Yes, I could stay as your father's servant, I could call Idris home again, and I have thought of it- but the cost is too high. In order to see you again I would have to be the go-between between your father and husband, whoever he may be. I would have to see you on _his_ arm, bearing _his_ children, and I do not want to live like that Clary. I will not," he repeated. It was not so much what Jace was saying as what he was not saying aloud, even now. It was enough for Clary to dismiss that they were in a public place and lean closer.

"It will not come to that," she lied. "Jace-"

He tried to shake her off again and wiped his face blank, or rather attempted to for Clary was now much more practiced at picking emotions out from behind his protective shield. "I have a plan," she babbled desperately, "to wreck the next betrothal,to whomever it is. I want _you_ Jace, though they say I cannot have you. That means nothing to me, nothing means anything- except that I love you. And I refuse to accept that is wrong."

"Love me?" for a heartbeat Jace sounded wistful, then he scoffed, moving to sidestep her and lead his horse away, "You hardly know me."

"Very well," Clary unintentionally recoiled at the sour tone, "then I hardly know you and still refuse to let you go."

The corner of Jace's mouth curled slightly, though Clary expected he was silently damning her for making him smile as he tried to walk away. It was what she would have done. He successfully manoeuvred his way past her and crossed to Wayfarer's other flank. Instinctively Clary grasped at the bridle, aware that she would look utterly ridiculous if she hung on the horse's reins to fight the departure, but do it she would, even should Wayfarer bit her in the face.

However, following the sound of rustling, a moment later Jace returned with a package in his hand. "Clarissa Morgenstern, one day you are going to be the fairest, fiercest queen Christendom has ever known. Isabella of Castile and Eleanor of Aquitaine will pale in comparison." Clary coloured slightly at the words, taking the package he passed to her numbly, "I have to go today, but I never intended to go without leaving you a goodbye. I was to send this to Isabelle to pass along after I had left. I feared that unless I could say farewell from a distance I would not say it at all."

Clary latched on to the hope his determination was faltering, "Then do not. Stay with me. We will come up with something."

"Would that I could," he murmured, reaching out to touch one of the frizzing locks of hair that had curled out from under her hood in the humidity of the air following the summer downpour. Then he straightened up and raised his voice, "Keep Isabelle with you, keep her out of trouble if you can, though I do not expect you to have much success. Keep yourself out of trouble more importantly, Princess. Do try not to get mobbed again in my absence."

A lump rose in Clary's throat and she half-laughed half-sobbed at the parting words, lowering her head and hugging the package to her chest. She had to step back and let Jace mount, her head tilted upwards as he tipped his hat to her.

"God keep you," she managed to call, voicing her most fervent prayer in days.

"And you," he responded softly, nodding over her head to Isabelle before clicking his tongue and urging Wayfarer into a trot.

Unable to bear the sight of him actually leaving her, Clary ducked her head and hastened back to Izzy, who slung an arm around her and greeted her with a gentle, "You trod in horse shit," as she steered her friend back indoors.

Neither of them saw the men-at-arms who exchanged a single glance and slipped out the gate after Jace.

 _-00000000000000-_

* * *

The silver lining to having one's hem smeared in horse excrement and your stockings destroyed by rainwater puddles was that upon return to your temporary apartments was that you could be hustled away to your private bedchamber to change. Once there, Clary sat down forlornly on the edge of her bed. "You can leave me Isabelle."

"You need fresh clothes-"

"I can dress myself. I did it for years."

Isabelle nodded slowly, realising Clary needed a rare moment alone to nurse her breaking heart. "I do not know what to say Clary. I fear my words would make paltry bandages at any rate, and I have no comforting wisdom of experience to share. Sometimes I doubt I have a heart that anyone could break. But... should you need company, I am just outside the door." Clary gave a small nod and sat still, long after the soft snap of the closed door. Eventually she did wriggle out of her soiled vestments and, clad only in her corset and petticoats, crawled back onto the bed and unwrapped the paper on her parting gift. A brand new copy of Malory's Morte d'Arthur revealed itself, stamped with the hallmark of Idris' primary printer in Alicante, meaning that he may have had it commissioned and had most definitely paid a delivery fee; which surely had taken an unreasonable amount of his wages. No, it was not the jewels or fine cloths that her father might have bought for her so flippantly at small fortune, but it was all the more precious to her in its simplicity. Upon flipping over the cover page Clary then located a single line inscribed in familiar, spiked handwriting:

 _For Lancelot loved Guinevere and Arthur too_.

She failed to hold back the tears any longer.

- _0000000000000-_

* * *

The open road used to hold such peace for Jace. In the past it had always been a symbol for moving on, enjoying new beginnings. Until now, every such journey that he had undertaken had denoted the beginning of the next chapter and the previous one tended to close in satisfaction and good cheer. None of these merry thoughts were on his mind as he trod down the main road heading west, his pessimism not helped by the realisation that his journey back to France would take him through Broceland, which besides being the lands of the inheritance he would never have was currently being torn apart by riots. From those who had trekked that way recently he was assured that the lands were now quiet, the real discontent having moved northwards.

By no means was Jace eager to get caught up in another mob, considering he had only narrowly escaped the last one, yet he could not wish the peasants ill. Although they were sure to be put down before they really got anywhere, he fully supported their desire to burn a few estates while they could. Anything that might take the smug smiles off the fat cats that filled Valentine's court and council had his wholehearted support. But his mind was not on their doomed revolution, rather on the girl he left behind. Telling himself that leaving her and her family far behind was for the best was not making the hoof beats that took him further from her fall any easier.

The same words kept ringing around in his head with each of Wayfarer's strides: _I love you I love you I love you._ Aside from anything else, that primal need to protect her that had first surfaced at Oldcastle was still present, beating frantically at his breast. That long-forgotten, once brotherly determination to shield her from anything that might bring her to harm, was now stronger and more clearly defined. Now it existed as the lover's need to destroy whatever threatened her with unhappiness.

He wished that he could wave a sword and liberate her from the new marriage she didn't want but here he was, meekly making his way back to his master like any obedient hound. No matter it was the master he told himself he chose. The reality of it all was that he had never had much of a choice.

There had always been that integral feeling that chafed against the reality of having to bow to a master at all, whatever part of his blood that remembered it was noble, that recalled it came from a line of kings albeit toppled ones, had always railed at his role of subservience. If Francois had not been dead he might have gone to Valentine and call in that favour to be a duke again. But his friend, the one he had betrayed by loving Clary, he _was_ dead. And though that was not directly Jace's fault, he blamed himself. Perhaps he should have been there to protect Francois, and if he could not shield him in person then he should have at least protected his interests and not fallen in love with his bride.

And he had fallen in love for the very first time, and for he feared the only time. He had known it for some time now, felt that pull mayhap as far back as the moment he had first laid eyes on her as a woman, in Alicante that first night. Yes, he had half been jesting when he had flirted with her, but something about her had intrigued him even then. He had known her, despite his blunders, in some corner of his heart. He may have blundered because he knew her, knew that she had always held that crucial part of his heart and he had wanted to protect himself. For if she fell in love with him it would have drawn him deeper, and it had. Now there was no escape from what he felt, and once he admitted it to himself he wondered if he would carry the knowledge with him throughout the rest of his life.

It hardly mattered that he had admitted it to his own heart anyway, for he had never told her. He cursed himself for not having done so now, with nought but the road and lining ditches to accompany him. What more damage could he have done? She had already told him how she felt and his instinctive, yet unforgivable response had been to brush it off. Yes, without doubt he was unworthy of that affection, but he might have acknowledged he had affections of his own. Since she was already open about what she felt, failing to return the sentiment on his part was less of a protection method and more a final punishment. She would be punished enough for loving him, there had been no need to exacerbate it.

Lost as he was in his own head, and caught up in his own guilt and regrets, Jace failed to take account of the world around him, or that he had acquired a shadow.

Usually he did not mind travelling alone and light as it made for the most efficient speed, and with a wallet full of mere papers he was never disturbed by bandits. On this occasion he had wanted to get away as quickly as he could, for the more he lingered at Valentine's court what strands of resolve he had summoned would soon unravel altogether, and he had not wanted the company of Alec after their quarrel. He knew that he would soon forgive his friend, and Alec him, but he also knew from experience they needed space to cool off first.

By the time the first proper town came into sight Jace was glad to see it. Having dawdled too long at court even the late summer evenings had stretched as far as it was willing to, the banners of smoke rising from the thatched roofs blending in with the darkening steel of another sullen night sky, behind which neither the rising moon nor first peeping stars could be seen.

Though Jace had a certain disregard for his own safety, not even he was willing to risk the roads at night. In spite of his overall miserable state he considered that it had been quite some time since he had last had a tavern cooked meal, and found he was quite looking forward to it. The sturdy warmth of a homely stew would do wonders in lining his stomach for the long journey ahead. Focusing on physical needs, like the snarling hunger in his stomach and the weariness of a long day weighing on his bones provided a comfortable enough distraction from his emotional pains.

Until, upon approaching the town's main thoroughfare he found his way blocked by two breastplate clad soldiers in the familiar maroon and black striped livery of the king of Idris. Had there not been metal strapped to their chests, he knew their breasts would have been embroidered with the Morgenstern star. They must have taken a shorter side road to arrive here before him, clearly they knew the territory better. The sight of them was enough for his empty stomach to clench anxiously, and the tension spread throughout his body as he realised they had no intention of letting him pass. The older of the two, who would soon become apparent as the dominant of the pair, was the first to speak as Jace reluctantly halted Wayfarer before them. "Is there some way I can help you gentlemen?"

"Aye, Herondale, you can help us."

He really was an ugly bastard, with an aging, mashed face, a crooked nose that looked as though it had once been broken and had never properly healed, and a nasty scar that sliced across the right side of his face, from temple to the top of his lip which seemed permanently stuck in a sneer. The scar cannot have been very old, as it formed a twisted rainbow of varying shades of angry red and a bitter purple. It made Jace's scar feel like a paper cut.

"By?" he snapped back in return, as Wayfarer tossed his head and whinnied fretfully, prancing uneasily on the spot. He was, after all a warhorse, and he must have been able to sense the thickening tension in the air, even smelling the metal of the many weapons the sinister duo were carrying. In a way, Jace was flattered, although the dread and growing fear won over.

"Hmm. Bit dangerous don't you think? A pretty little Herondale princeling wandering around Broceland on his own, at a troubled time like this?"

Jace's mouth had dried up, but he made his face stay blank. "I was told that the area had quietened and I have seen no trouble thus far. I should hardly call it wandering either, since I am on the business of the King of France." He knew as he said it his defence was weak, crisply and firmly as he had spoken. He doubted these thugs cared for the authority of a foreign king.

Startlingly, his new enemy donned a twisted smile, which contorted the scar, and proved nastier than his sneer. "Really think old Francy would miss you eh? I don't. I would love to ruin that lovely face, pretty boy, tear out a few of those girly locks. Not much I wouldn't give to knock out a few of those pearly teeth."

Perversely, Jace was glad of the taunts, for they allowed rising anger to quench the rising panic. At least if they were determined to rough him up, the prospect of an arrest warrant seemed less likely. He loosed his shoulders only long enough to pull off a languid shrug, "Life's not fair, is it? A true pity- that we can't all be as ugly as you. Especially since that hideous face must serve as a reminder of the bashing you thoroughly deserved and allows your _scintillating_ personality to shine through." The guard cursed colourfully and his hand shot to the dagger at his side, and Jace reached for the blade at his hip-

"Enough Al!" The other soldier growled.

 _Al_ , Jace thought, sliding his knife back into its sheath and revelling in the soothing scrape of metal _, Remember that. Presumably short for Albert, or Almighty Pain in the Backside._

Then he was addressed again, though his biting sarcasm had not endeared him any to Morgenstern Crony Number Two. "The King of France is no longer expecting you. Since it is not safe for you to be prowling these areas at this time, we are to escort you to Alicante, Herondale."

"Alicante? To what end?"

"That is for the King to decide," Al spat, "All I know is I am to get you to the Gard quickly." He grinned then, as though he was all too aware that all of Jace's childhood nightmares were clamouring in around him, and not even the checker board of rotting and vaguely white bone that formed the few teeth Al had could distract him for the very real terror of the Black Tower.

"Hand over the weapons. Apparently some very important people have some very important questions to ask you."

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

 _ **A/N: GASP. Or not. Maybe you saw that coming. I mean he was never going to be based on a young Elizabeth** **and not get himself arrested** **at least once. I think what we can all agree on is that whatever Alec is getting paid it is not enough. I personally hate this entire chapter and apologise profusely (again). I will try to do better next time.**_


	16. Out of the Frying Pan

_Out of the Frying Pan _

**_A/N: The excuses are getting wilder guys. I wish I was making this up. The finger has healed, but then I travelled quite a bit. Consequently I was in Turkey. During a military coup. Need I say more?_**

 ** _There is something of an unsavoury sexual scenario in the chapter, but nothing graphic and one that has a rather satisfactory ending._**

 _-0000000000000000-_

* * *

 ** _The Gard, Alicante, Early September 1536_**

Two weeks. Two damn weeks he had sweltered and paced in this damn prison, his constant striding back and forth in the cramped quarters the only active way of whiling away the hours between his frequent 'interviews' with Master Secretary Pangborn and the good Cardinal Enoch. At least if he could keep moving in whatever futile way possible he might alleviate the feeling of helplessness somewhat.

His only moment of respite thus far had been the relief that upon arrival to the Gard he had been permitted to enter via the main gate (albeit at nightfall) rather than the back gates used for criminals, and was not to be housed in the infamous Black Tower after all. Nor had Jace been served an official reading of his arrest, or charged with any solid offence. He could also be grateful that his old friend Al had not shown his hideous face since he'd arrived, but had seemed as close to joy the evil bastard was as likely to get in dumping Jace into the cardinal's custody.

All of that being said, there was no mistaking that he was a prisoner here, every bit as extravagantly and thoroughly caged as the exotic lion the menagerie just across the Princewater held. He could see such buildings out of his slip of window, which faced out onto the river rather than the green, and indeed it often provided the only form of entertainment he had. He also knew he was a prisoner for although he was being kept in the part of the Gard that contained the royal palace he was closely confined to these quarters. Not that he had much of a choice since his only exit was locked, but the Cardinal had cemented the reality of his captivity by recommending with a thin lipped smile that he stay put, "until the extent of the situation was clear".

That situation, Jace too had become aware of, for four days ago the appearance of columns and twirls of smoke just beyond the city walls denoted just how close the King's enemies had gotten. Valentine was effectively under siege in his own city; he had been forced to order the gates of Alicante closed and Jace guessed the lack of movement on the river in recent days implied it too had been blockaded.

None of which helped him sleep any better, or in fact at all, since the more dire Valentine's position grew the more dire his own position was. If the sight of his head on a spike was all that might be required to disband these rebels then he'd wager he would find himself experiencing a sharp pain to the back of the neck soon. In his heart of hearts he could not believe the man he still considered his father would sentence him facetiously or freely. However the same could not be said of his council, dominated as it were by Jonathan, Blackwell, Pangborn and the Cardinal, then filled by those who would not dare challenge them. Whatever the King's reluctance, his Council would happily kill him.

Out of sheer spite they may even hang him, since he had no title and could technically therefore die a common criminal's death. Although that would spare him the brutality of beheading, it was surely no mercy. The thought of his last moments being an agony of flailing limbs kicking uselessly at the air denied to his lungs was not a pleasant one. Not that any death was especially alluring to him, but at least a demise upon the scaffold was quicker than the gallows. And of course there was that boyish part of Jace that for all his wretched memories of war still craved that inkling of a warrior's death;his blood still sang for the fall of the sword or axe to end him as it might in the field.

Yanking now at the ties of the shirt at his throat and wrists, Jace anxiously quelled such thoughts and tried to suck in a breath from this foetid chamber, hoping that the air- stale though it was- might clear the dizziness from his mind. He had to keep his wits about him, having been unwillingly divested of his sword and knives long ago the only weapon he had to hand was his own mind, and he needed to keep it sharp now more than ever.

He had stripped to his shirt and breeches long ago, the dusty coat and doublet he had been wearing on his travels now slung over the end of the narrow bed supplied to him. These days Jace started wondering whether the heat of these rooms was part of a ploy to get him to talk. He was on one of the upper levels of the Gard, it would seem, and the bleakly plain rooms and stuffiness implied that there were no longer used to do aught but house the pieces of furniture, paintings and other bits of tat that had belonged to the Morgensterns' forbearers which no one had the heart or motivation to throw away.

It was difficult not to think of Clary, who would have tormented his mind anyway miles away in Paris, but it was impossible to forget that she was under the same roof as him again. Thoughts of her needled him, initially like an itch, and when he indulged them the scratching proved painful. He doubted she knew he was here or in such peril. He doubted that anyone knew he was here, as his request for writing materials and ink had been denied. That was another reason for keeping him here, rather than in the prison itself under lock and key. For that would require gaolers, more watchmen, and a true rats nest of fellow prisoners all of whom would talk. Keeping and interrogating Jace had to be done as covertly as possible. All of which gave Jace hope.

Although he may have no title he was still a nobleman by blood and that prohibited torture, but the more he spoke to Pangborn, and even the wilier Cardinal the more obvious it was that these men were grasping at straws in their attempt to link him to the rebel cause. Imaginary straws, not that that was of any account. They had no official charges to bring against him since they had no proof of any wrongdoing, other than what appeared to be rumours. So they spent their days in an endless, futile dance with the King's agents prancing around terms like "treason" and hoping Jace might trip himself up. They were relying on him to incriminate himself; to say something out of turn, to slip up and tell them something about the rebels plans they did not know, or acknowledge any contact with the known leaders. Anything at all that could be used to accuse him and conduct a proper examination.

It was exhausting, trying to spy their subtle traps and circumnavigate them, then keep his cool and composure and measure every word. These rooms were uncomfortable, but not unbearably so, Jace reminded himself, prising his hair off his damp forehead.

Yet it was difficult to stay sharp when he was struggling to sleep and when he did slip into his dreams they were full of nightmares.

But he could do it, he could survive this. Above all he had to hold on to the fact that he was innocent. He had no knowledge of any seditious plots other than the scraps Pangborn and Enoch fed to him. He had never planned or encouraged a rising against the King. He had not colluded with but _fired_ on those rebels at Oldcastle, to save the King's daughter no less. He was a loyal and servant of the Morgenstern family. He was a diplomat for Christ's sake! Arguably the most skilled of courtiers. God help him, he was the best in Europe, a nonpareil for his age. There was nothing he could do better than weave a story, the very finest tailor of tales. He would happily weave them the words they wanted to hear. True, he was known for letting his mouth lead him onto trouble, but he could also talk his way out of a monarch's displeasure and calm the storms of his wrath. He had done it before, and for the sake of his sanity he reassured himself he would do it again.

Jace had told himself he had not wanted to die in the dust of Gavinana and he stoked that old spirit of defiance now. If he was destined to die a felons death then he would make damn sure if was for a crime of which he was guilty.

He also draw encouragement from the signs that his interviewers patience was starting to wear thin. Pangborn more so, as he had on the most recent occasions been visibly strained, and not just because the stuffy loft suite was wreaking havoc with his already struggling sinuses. They were under pressure too, the pressure to bring results. Jace knew that Jonathan Morgenstern in particular was chomping at the bit to see him conveyed to a cell in earnest, and from there to a pike that he could wave at those who challenged his father's reign.

As a parched man lapped at the water of an oasis he'd crawled to Jace tried to savour that. He had held out this far, just a little longer and he would make it. Just another day and the rioters would disband. One more night and somehow Clary would learn of this and intercede on his behalf. She was first lady at this court, she must have the queen's right to beg for mercy. If she got down on her knees and publicly pleaded with her father for his release, Valentine could gladly set him free without losing face.

Currently the creak of a door and the ensuing groan of ancient floorboards under foot warned Jace that the next session of questions was approaching. On cue, the jangle of keys heralded the entrance of the cardinal into the same room as Jace. Alone, save for the weasel of a scribe who scratched down every utterance. That was not for the best. Pangborn was the one who was more ruffled, whose whole position relied on the King's favour and therefore was a thousand times more desperate to provide Valentine's Council with the Herondale scapegoat they needed. Enoch was an esteemed clergyman and a prince of the Catholic Church in his own right. Regardless of what Valentine needed, Enoch had the Vatican behind him. Not that this meant he was any less eager than his comrade to see matters here settled, but it made him less perturbed by the lack of progress and Jace's frustrating verbal evasions.

Enoch could play the long game. Jace strived to reassure himself he could too.

With another of his signature bland smiles the cardinal stationed himself at the table that took up most of the room, his crimson robes spreading out around him. "Please, Monsieur Herondale, sit." Silently, Jace obeyed the invitation, taking up his own position on the opposite side, the table now acting as a thin wooden barrier between them. As he did each and every time he found himself in the positon, Jace began by sizing up his opponent, as he might do before a dual. This was as much a sparring match as anything, with the blades simply being replaced by tongues.

Enoch was not a particularly striking man in his appearance. Keen grey eyes, and equally greying hair though he was not an old man- if Jace were to hazard a guess he would say late forties. There was something of a hook to his nose, so he somehow reminded one of a bird of prey and the bony, talon like fingers that were loosely clasped and laid before him on the table were soft, though laden with bright rings. This was a man who had lived in holy comfort all his life.

Now what he had heard of the man must be considered. Enoch was the sort of spiritual advisor to the King who was far more concerned with the political. He may pray for his soul to reach heaven, but the good cardinal was certainly a man for the present and the body. Not that he was consumed with bodily pleasures, as it happened he was one of the few clerics who was not known to be gluttonous or lecherous, but his vice was unquestionably avarice. He thrived off the tithes the Idrisian faithful poured into his Church and was just as grasping as every other man at the council chamber, and twice as effective. He made a fortune off the King too, since he had a nose for money and an eye for property, and was a canny financial guide for His Majesty too. None of which was useful to Jace, who had no way to bribe him. He knew that the Cardinal had grand hopes for his personal position too. He had come to court as a shrewd bishop a decade ago, had soon become part of the King's inner circle and had been elevated to Cardinal five years later. In recent years he had formed a firm alliance with the King's son, whose ruthless response was just the one Enoch required for tackling the new threat which challenged the church (which all but acted as his own personal mint) from the inside. Jonathan's merciless and ceaseless pursuit of heretics and his cleverness in revealing a way to make money from it had him eternally indebted to the cardinal. Knowing this did not soothe Jace's nerves, which were racked by this interrogations even if his body were not.

In the silence which stretched on a bell chimed somewhere in the city. Jace had long ago given up on trying to calculate what hour of the day it was. Evidently deeming that his clerk had enough time to prepare himself, Enoch began. "How are you, Monsieur?"

Jace pried his chapped lips apart, "Much the same as you found me this morning, Eminence." _Discomforted, anxious, utterly innocent..._

Although there seemed to be no pattern as to what time of the day his questioning might commence Jace knew there would be at least two and as many as three daily. Given that this one-today's second- was conducted in what appeared to be the late afternoon, Jace wagered he would have another later. The Cardinal smiled again without a hint of warmth, the coolest thing in this cursed room.

"Remind me, what cause brought you to Idris in the first instance?"

Jace blinked, "I was instructed by His Grace the King of France to lead a diplomatic mission." The Cardinal's lips twitched, as though it had not been the answer he had been expecting. Admittedly, in the section of his mind that was semi-hysterical already Jace wanted to blurt out that he had come to rouse the discontented and usurp the King after all.

"Be more precise," Enoch purred in that low yet dulcetly powerful voice, reminding Jace of the grand pieces of oration that were his Masses. He nodded to the clerk and the papers that fanned the table. The scribe reached over and dunked his nib in the nearby inkpot niosily in anticipation, the normally calming and familiar sound now taunting Jace. He made himself hold the cardinal's stare, "I was to negotiate the Dauphin's marriage to the Princess Clarissa."

"And what think you of the Princess?"

Holy Hell. This was new territory. "I am sure a consultation of my letters to King Francois will reveal my opinion of the lady, which is very high indeed." _As though you have not scoured every piece of my correspondence._ He smiled as sweetly as possible, "I thought her a fit mate for my master's son- God rest his soul- in every way. Your Eminence, no praise would be enough. She is a credit to a mighty House. I would not have expected any less given her lineage."

"You and the Princess grew rather close. Many have remarked upon it. As a matter of interest, one of her ladies mentioned you had rather privy conversations in her rooms. She singled you out on more than one occasion. Why so, monsieur?" Jace was no longer sweating solely due to the heat. It was enough to make him want to open the windows and risk the reek of the city in these summer temperatures, though he knew they were sealed shut. Needlessly, as from this height any escape plan would be botched by Jace's inability to survive the drop.

But what the devil was _this_ devil doing questioning Clary's ladies? Had he Valentine's blessing to inspect her household? Was the Princess herself under scrutiny? Even as all this whirled and clashed in Jace's mind her forced himself to speak rationally, "Her Highness and I grew up together. We had many fond childhood memories to share."

"And that was all you spoke of?"

"Beyond that we spoke only of the Dauphin. She wished to no more of the man she might marry, naturally."

The Cardinal tutted, and the slowly setting sun sent rays slanting through the arrow slit window. The light caught the gold, ruby and pearl crucifix swinging from Enoch's neck. The bolt of brightness hurt Jace's eyes.

"Yet you admit she singled you out. That the two of you grew intimate. Especially so in the wake of your contact with the Oldcastle rabble."

"She was attacked at Oldcastle. I helped her escape. A feat his Majesty himself has recognised and personally expressed gratitude for. Your Eminence if you would but let me speak to the King-"

"That will not be possible," Enoch snapped abruptly, all trace of his plaintive persuasion gone. He then hastened to shroud his speech in the velvety coaxing that urged a confession once more, "Surely, you can see how that _looks_. As though you were getting ideas above your station. That you somehow miraculously extracted the Princess from a mob of people who are at present armed outside our gates is suspicious. An encounter no one can vouch for since Her Highness was unconscious at the time. That too, Monsieur suggests a different, damning _intimacy_. It appears to me that you knew these men. That you parleyed with them, perhaps as a friend. That you urged them to spare the lady so that you might personally foster sympathies amongst the royal household."

Jace's horror flared, "That is preposterous! I told you before, there was this infernal _contraption_ of Sebastian Verlac's- he can vouch for me on that!" The moment the words left his mouth Jace recognised, too late, their folly. As though the young Earl, Jonathan's favourite lapdog, would ever back Jace's word over the Prince's.

Enoch knew it too, as he gave Jace a rather triumphantly sympathetic smile, "At any rate, none of the above answers the first question I asked. I enquired as to why you were in Idris in the very _first_ instance, Monsieur. What brought you to Idris the first time, Jonathan Herondale?"

Jace was baffled, "I was born here."

Cardinal nodded with rapid approval, "Why?" He asked, drawing out the syllable interminably.

"Why is anyone born anywhere?" Jace snarled, hating that he failed to see where this was going, "It was, quite literally, an accident of birth."

"An accident of birth" the Cardinal echoed with silky sadness, nodding solemnly, as if they were the words he was reading off Jace's epitaph rather than his lips. Which Jace supposed he could well be.

"You were born in Idris because your father was Idrisian, is that what you are trying to say?"

Jace nodded slowly, beating down the desperate urge to shift his weight in his seat. It would not do for his unease to be that noticeable, since it would only encourage his adversary. So, much as he normally avoided responding so agreeably to these leading questions, Jace reasoned that to have an Idrisian parent was not a crime. So he made himself sit still and keep looking the Cardinal in the eye, even as his upper lip beaded with sweat and his hands began to tremor in a way he could only hide by clasping them tighter together.

"You spoke earlier of the might of the King's House. Would you care to enlighten me as to which House you were born into?"

"Herondale," Jace forced himself to say lightly, and as nonchalantly as one might call out the colour of a horse's coat.

"An old family yours, is it not?"

"I believe so."

This was a new tactic, one Pangborn had adopted earlier, but less effectively; trying to get Jace to acknowledge his bloodline. Trying to press him to say that he had more right to rule than Valentine.

"A very old one indeed. And a much celebrated one, at a time. Not necessarily warranted praise as far as most are concerned. "

Jace nipped involuntarily at the soft flesh on the inside of his mouth, to halt the surfacing retort at the last minute. The ensuing flinch of pain flashed across his face before he could stop it.

The Cardinal seemed elated at this indication of his discomposure, the predatorily eager delight springing to his face now, accentuating the likeness to a bird of prey that Jace had first noticed in his thin talons of hands and hooked nose. The killing blow had yet to come, Jace reminded himself, and forcibly battered down the fresh crest of a wave of panic. He had said nothing that could be held against him.

"Please, Monsieur. You need not hold your tongue. Speak to me I implore you; I am here to listen."

"There is nothing of consequence I could say." Jace snapped back.

"I am also the one here who is fit to deem what is or is not of consequence." His expression darkened, thick grey brows swooping down, "And I am growing rather tired of the sound of my own voice. I am not the one whose words matter at this moment."

Silently, the addressed guided his index finger around the rim of a dip in the wooden table before allowing his finger to slide into it. "Very well. You wish for me to speak of my father? I will do so. First I must ask, Your Eminence, that you will consent to hear my confession."

While the clergyman, to his credit, managed to hold his expression to a semblance of calm, the clerk at his shoulder looked fit to propel himself out of his stool with excitement. Jace peered at the cardinal in what he prayed passed as a convincing facade of the meekly desperate penitent hoping in his naivety that under the pretence of the sought sacrament of reconciliation his professed guilt could not be put before a court. The confessor was supposed to be sworn to silence, after all. This one he knew would only be too glad to pour every phrase of his professed sins into the King's ear. Good.

"The one who bore the name Herondale is just that- a name to me. I have seen no paintings, no writings, nothing of him. As far as I have been concerned, the father who holds my filial love and obedience- besides the heavenly one- is His Majesty himself. For it was he who raised me in his own household, put a roof over my head and a pen and sword in my hands as I grew and saw to it that I could use both adequately." The already pale fingers facing Jace's whitened further as they were clenched tighter. The gold and jewelled rings lining them stood out in stark brightness by comparison. Before his interrogator lost his patience entirely Jace dropped his head in the universally understood demonstration of shame, dropping with it a tantalising titbit of a guilty conscience; "It is there that my true sin lies. For I have broken one of the oldest and most sacred laws. One of the very Commandments: Honour thy father."

 _Reeled in, hook and all._ Enoch leaned forward with haste, the sudden movement sending the crucifix at his neck swaying like a great golden pendulum. Jace amused himself internally with the imagining the cardinal being yanked in on a fishing line, flapping and flailing about helplessly in his bright red robes like the trout that were dragged from the Princewater and served at the King's table each Friday.

"Go on, my son."

Now Jace led the dance. He lifted his head again and drew a countenance of utter misery around him like a cape, "For in my unswerving obedience to King Valentine I have betrayed the memory of the man who gave me life." He dropped the curtain on his little performance, "Yet I cannot help but return the affection of a poor sinner to the man who loves me like a father." He allowed the ending of his final pronouncement to darken with a threat, drawing his tongue over his cracked and dry lips.

The cardinal's patience had run out. "Be thankful that the King may well continue to consider you with such fondness. It could be all that might save you. If I were you, Jonathan Herondale" –his tone was so clipped and chilly that despite the continuing oppressive heat around him Jace half-expected the glass of the slice of window pane to freeze over- "I would think long and hard about all you have heard today. And when you have mulled that over you ought to compile a _real_ confession and fling yourself on His Majesty's mercy." He rose without any further warning, and waved at the clerk to pack away his things. What was to ensue was not to be recorded. "Herondale, you have a way with words, that much is clear. Words mean both nothing and everything, depending who hears them. You paint yourself as the very picture of innocence. Perhaps that visage is convincing because it comes from sincerity, but while I think you many things, a fool is not one of them. You have made some powerful enemies at this court, you must understand." Jace's fists clenched uselessly at his sides with the warning, and he waited with baited breath. This was not a friendly caution, nor was it in the cardinal's interest to waste his breath stating the obvious. So he waited for him to get to the damn point. "It does not matter whether or not you are guilty, since the suspicion is enough. When an army of sorts marches on the King under _your_ family banner it cannot be forgiven and forgotten. The rabble will be put down. That is not where this ends. Someone must be punished, and since you are the only one surviving with the Herondale name; those who seek retribution need not look very far."

With that parting shot Enoch made himself scarce, the dark satin of his slippers peeking from below the hem of his robes and hissing softly as their soft soles slid over the floor with his departure. Clearly he meant for Jace to simmer as he was, to mull over what he had just been told and come to the logical conclusion, that he ought to repent for the sin of his birth and hope Valentine was inclined to be merciful.

Again, Jace reflected that as demanding a parent Valentine was, he was not a heartless one. He had loved Jace as a son, and he would be reluctant to persecute him now. Valentine had taken him in, and loved him in a way no one else had or would. Whatever his bitterness about having been treated as the poor relative that was truthfully all he had been at this court, and while Valentine's abandonment of him still stung years later, it had brought him to Alec and Isabelle and for that Jace could only be grateful. Valentine was a cold man and a ruthless ruler, but that part of Jace that had once put every ounce of childish faith in the man still yearned to trust him now. All that Jace endured in these stifling days was but an attempt to appease the Council and his son, to demonstrate that something was being done and to divert attention from the reality of the royal family's helplessness.

However Jace had never been keen to allow logic to get in the way of his own damn stubbornness. He had held out this far. He may be a gambler, but that only extended to the card table and his life was the one gambit he was loath to make.

As the hours passed by and the room darkened from orange to blue to black and the three permitted candles were lit Jace watched the closest flame writhe around on the wick, gasping for air too in the tight, hot surroundings. He tossed it over in his mind again and again, some sort of demented coin flipping in his head, with the consequences of life or death stamped on either side.

Enoch had all but told him that evidence could be fabricated if need be, so it may well transpire that this metaphorical coin had death on either side. He would lie to save himself yes, but a lie here would kill him twice as fast. If he confessed there was no guarantee Valentine could stay the Council's hand. Even his old allies would hesitate to defend him, lest they end up on a scaffold themselves.

There was a reason that his family's arms were covered in their houses. He counted the ten paces it took him from the bed to the window, peering out the narrow slip of glass and straining to find the stars. He was too high up to hear the gentle lapping of the Princewater against the fortress wall, but near enough to admire the shadowy outlines of the boats that bobbed on the current.

So he would keep doing what he was doing, they would not tolerate his holding his tongue so he would lead them on as many infuriating little jigs around the question, reeling them in and flinging them out until his enemies lost their patience. That was dangerous too, of course. But Jace could bide his time. He did have some true friends, he reminded himself. Adamant could not be alienated if Idris' trade routes overland to France were to be maintained, and the Lightwoods would not take kindly to Jace's treatment should it be discovered. Admittedly, they were not the most powerful, but Clary... She might hate him for leaving her, and God knew as he had toiled mentally over that decision too he had been caught between the agony of knowing that it would mean hurting her and the relief that her returned animosity might finally set them free and. That aside, she would never hate him enough to stand by silently and watch him die. She would fight for him, if he could only get word to her. It might put her in danger too, since the Cardinal suggested she was already implicated in these falsehoods.

But she could well be the last hope he had.

Besides, were to be accused alongside him there was safety in numbers. Divided and uncertain they could easily be tricked; no one would dare accuse the King's own daughter directly, but if they could press or trick her into saying aught that might condemn Jace... At least together and as aware of the extent of what was happening as they could be, they might have some chance of standing firm, of his escaping this.

Scowling to himself Jace continued pacing, bouncing on the balls of his feet somewhat to try and lose some of the pent up energy that was rolling off his overactive mind.

He was Jonathan Herondale, and he was not going to die like this.

It was time to stop shying from that name, to cease cringing from all its connotations. He was done with all of that, for oddly now that his worst fears were all culminating to reality Jace was calm. His mind began to clear as the night skies did, the drifting gauzy darkness of cloud shifting to allow the moon to illuminate the city and Jace's on cramped quarters.

He was who he was, and there was no use in apologising for what could not be helped or changed.

 _Jonathan Herondale, Jonathan Herondale,_ it echoed as a mantra in his head. If it was to be someone else's war cry then he would make it his too.

Clearly someone out there believed his name should be worn with pride; that it was worth fighting for. And somewhere in the palace below him there was a girl who believed he was worth loving and fighting for too. She had not been begging him merely to stay that day in the stable yard, Jace understood now, but she had been asking him to allow her to fight for him too. Perhaps not with a pitchfork or dagger, but with her words, her heart.

There was nowhere to run any more, and his own name had caught up with him.

Jace was done with praying too, and now he tried to barter with the Almighty. If He could but help him get out of this, help him survive or in the very least give him the strength to fight on then he _would_ keep fighting. If they wanted to kill him for being a Herondale he did not want to hate being one. He would never be a Morgenstern, and he would never know his real father, so why should he be anything like Stephen? He shared the same noble forefathers as the Morgensterns at any rate. They feared him as a lowly ambassador, because he was more than that, or rather he could be. The same horror that had once struck him as a boy in oversized armour gripping someone else's sword chimed in his skull alongside the bells of the many city churches. If he survived this and death tried to come for him again, next time he would have _lived_ before it could take him. If God got him through this, if God granted him the quick wit and steel nerve to get himself out of here then there would be no more flight.

He would fight for his freedom and once that battle was won he would fight on until he had something and was someone. They would never catch him such a vulnerable nobody again. And once that war was won- well, a somebody would dare fight for Clary Morgenstern too.

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

Even before she was accosted, Isabelle had not been having a good evening. Not that she imagined anyone trapped in this kind of situation would find it particularly fun. The courtiers were less than their usual effervescent selves: they spent their days melting under the heavy jewelled chains and many layers of their expensive clothing as they hurried to nowhere in the Gard's narrow corridors and turreted rooms in a panicked frenzy of potential plans. Then their nights subsequently passed in a frenzy of quaking worry that the peasants might sneak in and murder them in their four poster beds.

The Gard was designed for two purposes: security and ceremony. It was compact, ornate and old, with centuries' worth of treasure stored within walls that had been buffeted by countless attacks over the many decades it had stood. The layout was so different from the open, airy rooms of the south that Isabelle had become accustomed to over the summer, but she imagined that she had slipped back to the spiralling staircases and winding stone hallways with greater ease than many of the other courtiers. It was not unlike the layout of the castle she had been raised in, meant for withstanding a siege rather than royal comfort. Not that royals ever lived in discomfort, for here Clary did not have the usual assigned wing of rooms but instead had her own _tower_. The Morgensterns only stayed in the Gard when they were under threat and needed a residence that was easily defended or to be closer to their esteemed ancestors in this, the oldest of their palaces. It did not hurt to remind oneself of the importance of one's family. Yet, sadly, it was the former motive which had brought all of them here.

She thanked God daily that Jonathan had not looked at her twice since he had arrived, instead charging between the King's quarters and his own with a more placid demeanour than most of the court, but still with an obvious tension to his movements. He only paused his flitting back and forth from Valentine to occasionally collar the cardinal and ask a handful of quiet but demanding questions, about what God only knew. She avoided him as best she could, hoping that in itself would deter him from seeking her out, and tried to reassure herself that with a rebel army camped outside his gates trying to get her into his bed would be the last thing on the Crown Prince's mind. A few months ago, the lack of attention would have offended her, and Isabelle could not say in all honesty that any forthcoming offers from Jonathan would have been rebuked. But things had changed since then. Now she knew the Prince better she had decided she really would rather join a convent than be touched by him. As for Simon-

None of this had anything to do with Simon she reminded herself constantly and sharply. He was kind, and at times funny- though his jests were often amusing only in the sense that they were not amusing- but she owed him nothing. Yet the prospect of his finding out about Jonathan's courtship and being wounded... for some unknown reason the thought of his being hurt put her insides in a tumult of guilt and anxiety that was almost hurtful in itself. She did not dread his noting anything between herself and Jonathan because she felt she belonged to him in any way, or that he might have a right to be upset about it on such grounds. Nonetheless, she did feel that she had no right to harm him.

God have mercy, she did not deserve him at all, not with his inexhaustible compassion and willingness to talk of anything or nothing with her. Alec had taken to calling him "the pup" rather sneeringly because of his growing devotion to Isabelle. He was unwaveringly faithful in a world of faithless people, and while others saw that as pathetic to Izzy it could be admired. Alec had also taken to rolling his eyes the moment Simon's back was turned and muttering things to the effect of "where does she find them?" and "By Christ- a musician!"

Sadly, thanks to his profession Isabelle had not seen her puppy in days. The King was not in the mood for merrymaking, meals were contained to each individual's private quarters, he had not summoned Clary to his presence in weeks and Clary was not exactly keen to visit of her own accord. In effect, there was no more parties or celebration. While he had not been dismissed Simon was keeping out of sight and out of the way, as one had to until the King found a use for him here. Or her.

While the guards around the palace had doubled there was no freedom of movement anyway; no member of the royal household was to step outside of the Gard's walls unless they wanted their wages and pensions to disappear. Being contained even to your tower was trying, especially with Clary remaining listlessly miserable since Jace had left her and Alec beside himself with fretting that Jace had sent no word from the road.

"He could be dead in a ditch for all we know!" Her brother had exclaimed, bursting into her chamber late last night. Isabelle, sitting up in her bed, had been most unimpressed and deeply frowning while Julie had lurched upright gasping in horror. She had calmed her new bedfellow as best she could with the assurance such declarations in the small hours were not unusual in her family as she had slipped out from under the covers and into her robe. She had been cross with Alec too, as had Julie once she had gotten past her mortification.

While the sight of two young ladies in only their night attire would not appeal to Alec in any way the rest of the world was not to know that. However it underpinned his distress that he had been so desperate to see her he had forgotten that she was no longer alone at night. Julie was sombre and nervous even without an unofficial siege scenario- but she was much better than Kaelie.

Still, upon being roused for Mass the next morning Isabelle had not been in fine fettle, having been up for hours trying to persuade Alec that it was not in Jace's nature to die quietly. He would do it theatrically and anyway, he had nothing worth stealing, so there was no reason for his way home to be interrupted. But it was not like Jace to be silent on anything, not even if he and Alec had quarrelled before he left.

So the evening found her tired, worried and above all lonely. The company of her fellow ladies was utterly unbearable these days, the frightened ninnies wearing away at her already limited patience.

Yes, she supposed they had some reason to be uneasy, but for all their apparent determination these rebels were no match for the finely honed, castle forged steel weapons, tight discipline and experience of the King's own men. That Isabelle had to believe. No Idrisian king had ever surrendered the Gard in the history of its existence, and Valentine Morgenstern would not be the first. Her knowledge of Idrisian history was patchy, but Izzy had been told by Clary that although it had been under siege several times during the years of civil war which had won the Morgensterns their crown it had never been surrendered by its holders. And Isabelle was amongst its holders now.

Even if their odds were dire, falling to hysteria was certainly not going to help. And Isabelle Lightwood was nothing if not the mistress of her own emotions. So she would endure the stench of the rank city streets that drifted over the Gard's walls, she would endure the smaller, plainer portion of food served to her at each mealtime and even suffer the wan faced company of the fellow nobles, packed together as they were like fish in a barrel praying they were not shot at. Whatever might come, she just had to endure. Not that this resolution never wavered, and there was enduring the near weeping of her fellow noblewomen in principle and physically having to sit in Clary's outer chamber with them.

Since Clary seemed to find a solace in prayer that Isabelle could not (her own poor grasp of the Latin language rendering the long methodical mumbling mind numbing rather than reverent) she took Clary's recent bout of anxious novenas as the prime opportunity to slip away.

She found wandering the halls of the Gard soothing in a way, it was not a totally foreign construct to her home, and besides that she relished the thrill of exploration, of finding old forgotten routes, of running her hands over fading yet still breath-taking tapestries, and the finely wrought yet ancient golden candlesticks. The royal suites were a clamour of colour; as a result of the curtains, carpets, paintings and so forth which crowded every available surface. Her mother had an insatiable appreciation of these finer things, and back at Adamant she had spent years collecting such items, the favourites being from her native Idris. She had imparted to Isabelle a similar joy of such finds, alongside a knack of sorting the well preserved and valuable from sentimental tat. Her parent's union had been an arranged one of political convenience, but once upon a time it had been a happy one and her father had contentedly indulged in Maryse's hoarding of antiques. There was a kind of homecoming in this magpie's nest of a palace, one that held the kind of peace a return to Adamant never would.

But Isabelle's favourite haunt, as discovered on their previous stay, was not in the endless galleries of finery but beyond the main building; up upon the highest turret. There air was fresher up there, for a start. And the view was spectacular, out over the many walls, battlements and even the moat. She could see the city itself, marvelling in the sight of the little ant figures of its people hurrying amongst the many thatched roofs, and at night the bobbing fires of the city below was also impressive. On a clear day she could see for miles, at times convincing herself the vague iridescent band of silver sometimes caught below the horizon was Lake Lyn all the way to the south. Even once darkness had descended there could be no boredom as it was possible to survey the blanketing darkness shot with threads of silver that was the skies.

Someday she would like to stitch it into a tapestry, that night sky. Its vastness brought with it the realisation that all of mankind was minute in the context of creation and she no longer felt alone in her insignificance. Mayhap Clary could outline the design with her skill at sketching and Isabelle would bring it to life with the keen eye and steady precision with the needle that was her own talent. Of course that would require a hefty purchase of silver thread; and her mind was buzzing as she tried to scramble together the estimated arithmetic and decide which guard might be persuaded through flirtation to venture out in the city and acquire it for them.

She had so thoroughly diverted herself on her climb upwards that she did not see or hear the Crown Prince until he barrelled into her on the narrow winding staircase and ensnared her waist with his arm. These steps were yet more proof of the Gard's military purpose; they were just wide enough for one man or woman to climb up at a time, and the ascendant found their right side grazing stone and barely avoiding the nearby torches upon the walls. That was intended to prevent an attacker from having full use of their sword arm. But when your attacker came from the step below you and did not require a sword, then you were in trouble.

Before the stunned gasp could escape Isabelle's lips his body was against hers, flush. Every crevice of air between them was sealed, and as the force of his pull flattened her skirts against her legs Isabelle's eyes shot down to the slim hand which was now pressed against her stomacher. They were startlingly similar to Clary's, she noted; the same slender digits, eerily identical sloping knuckles and joints under snowy skin. Only distinctly more male: larger for a start, and flecked with little scars instead of freckles.

Her suspicions as to her accoster's identity were all that stopped her elbow crashing into the softer flesh at his stomach that might restore her freedom, and those suspicions were proved by the low seductive voice by her ear; "Hush, don't scream." She felt the edge of his smile against the tip of her ear, "Not yet." The warmth of his wine scented breath sent invisible insects crawling across her skin.

Drunk. Perfect.

Not that she could rely on the Prince to unhand her if she asked nicely or even demanded it. Isabelle's mother had always impressed upon her that the male nobility of any court were often gentlemen in name alone. All the same, she doubted she would be in the current predicament were he sober. He was far from the only one in this keep who found the best method of soothing their fraying nerves was to drown their worries. If the rabble outside their gates did break through they would find this court easy pickings.

Jonathan may have caught her from behind but there was no hope of moving forward. His lover's embrace held her tighter than a vice, the silver and shot black of his sleeves glimmering faintly in the dull lighting of surrounding torches against the ebony licks of her hair and pea green bodice.

Even should she cry out for them the watchmen who normally appreciated the sight of her on their turrets were not about to wrest her from the Crown Prince's grasp. Instead Isabelle kept her breathing as even as possible and let a teasing laugh wring itself from her throat.

Flirtation was her favourite game and she would play it until he loosened his hold. _Convince him to continue with the thrilling chase._ She would make whatever empty promises for the future she had to so she might walk away tonight.

"Highness, there is no need to creep after me like a cut-purse."

"Every need," he growled, tugging her hair away from her neck where his mouth now hovered, not with care. The strands jerked at her scalp and her dangling earing clattered at the skin below her lobe. "I have tried asking you nicely Isabelle, dozens of times. You will not take my gifts, nor my letters. I can but assume you want to hear, to _feel-"_ His hand crept across her waist _\- "_ what I have been saying."

"My lord," she started in protest while she shifted her weight as best she could with her limbs still trapped against his. Her instincts were still howling at her to fight, to flee- to do anything that prey ought to do while caught in the predator's claws. But she was not some bleating doe. "What, pray tell, might my silence suggest to you on the topic?" She kept her voice playful, but gave a tentative tug to see if he might let her go at that. No such luck. She lowered her voice and made it firmer; "Mayhap that Your Highness should not take what he wants before I am willing to give."

His teeth grazed her bared neck, then came the muted hiss of her skirts as they were lifted off the worn stone steps and upwards, then further upwards still. Isabelle jerked uselessly in his hold. "I am the Prince of Idris" he slurred somewhat, but his hands on her never fumbled, "It is a pity you are not eager to entertain me this evening. You would have been delightful that way. But even like this you will be more than satisfactory. I never did care for anyone's permission, and I am sick of not being heard."

To her horror Isabelle felt her throat contract and the beginnings of a sob scrabbled at the back of her throat. She was used to being one step ahead. She was always darting just out of reach, the one every man wanted but could not have and would never touch. She was ever in control. Not like this, not _this_ -

Jonathan spun her round, and she took advantage of the movement to thrash unrestrained, abandoning any pretence at leading him on, or willingness. Regardless, her shoulder bones struck the aged, icy stone and the shock and pain of the contact knocked the breath out of her lungs. Perhaps she could be glad of this sudden cold, if it numbed her to what was happening.

"Now, now Isabelle," seeing his face, the primal lust in his eyes and the sneer on his lips as she heard his voice; it all sent undiluted rage crashing through her and she tried to writhe out of his grasp again. "Why the struggle? There is nothing to save here. I cannot imagine there is any dishonour in this. Nothing you haven't had before."

His right hand went to his waist, to the ties of his breeches and Isabelle's own hand shot free almost under its own compunction until she slapped him across his face as hard as she could.

It must have hurt for the whole side of his face bloomed red, cheek lighting up like the sacred heart lamp while Jonathan cursed ferociously. The emerald stone of her ring had nicked his face just below his left eye and oozed a little steam of blood as Isabelle looked on with grim delight, his blood more black than red in the torchlight.

"Bitch," he hissed, his spit spraying in her face as he shoved her back to the wall with all his might. His hand now closed on her throat, rage visibly mixing with desire. He still had a fistful of her dress, and yanked it up half an inch. Despite the pressure on her throat Isabelle found she could still speak, making her own face mirror his fury, a look that might well slice through cold steel with ease. "Try to touch me like that and I will cut your balls off..." Her eyes flickered down slowly, not from fear but genuine disgust and contempt. She finished sweetly, "Although your snatching at women in dark and empty corners does raise the question as to whether you possess any."

Shock chimed across his horribly handsome features at that, and a harsh little laugh sawed itself free of Isabelle and must have bit into him, for he choked it off with tightened fingers.

"How dare you-"

She finally let her free left hand grab at his wrist. Though strength might be lacking in her weaker hand she still had plenty to sink her nails in deep enough to at the very least to mark him, and certainly as she applied maximum pressure for his fingers to free her throat.

"How dare _I_? You are about to try and force yourself upon me Jonathan Morgenstern, so I fail to believe that the usual courtly manners apply. I am no longer required to have manners. You certainly don't, and I am very glad to divest myself of mine." She sucked in breath "And I mean it. Do it and my brother will kill you. He will not give a shit who you are, _Highness_."

"Kill me?" He echoed, scathingly incredulous, "You and I both know Alec is not much of a man. Certainly not in the traditional sense. Besides, I think that these days his perversions keep him thoroughly occupied." The grin he fired at her now made her want to kill him herself.

Sadly the sharpest item on her was an ivory hairpin, so she settled for a sharp knee to the groin.

"It would appear I stand corrected" she spat out upon the contact which had him doubled over gasping, even as she wished to God that she did possess the brute strength or the weaponry to run him through. She let herself pretend she had as he crumpled in on himself, making it easy for her to shove him aside and bolt down the steps breathlessly. She might have feared the consequences of her actions had she not been sure that the humiliation of what he could remember of this night would keep the Prince's tongue still on the matter.

In fact there was nothing much on Isabelle Lightwood's mind except putting one foot in front of the other as quickly as possible as she slid and stumbled over her own hem on the descent. Then she ran for all she was worth.

-000000000000000-

* * *

Jace had awoken to hundreds of scenarios in dozens of different ways. He'd been kissed awake by lovers he did not want to remember, or by the proprietor of the establishment after nights he could not remember because his sprawled form was preventing the sweeping of the floors. Of course he had also been shaken out of oblivion by an incensed or excited Alec on more than on occasion and his own personal low had been being lapped awake by a strange dog.

This however was the real rock bottom.

It seemed that although Pangborn had been sent to do the honours it was not for the sake of another of their delightful interviews. After the blunt, nasal command that he dress himself fully and quickly the Master Secretary stood off to the side, leaving a puzzled Jace to reluctantly don his dusty, discarded doublet even though he was already sweltered, and try his best to tidy his hair. He judged from the wan lighting it was sometime around the ninth hour after noon. He had only slept for around an hour.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" He now attempted to drawl while Pangborn apathetically watched him lace his boots.

"His Majesty demands your presence." Jace blinked, abandoning the ties mid knot and staring hopefully at his visitor. Had his prayers really been answered? Pangborn continued, "He is in the middle of another meeting of the Privy Council. It would appear we have finally found a use for your silver tongue."

Try as he might Jace could not press him for any more tid-bits of information than that. It would appear all he had gleaned from his previous interrogations would be all he had to go on, walking into the bear pit bare handed, so to speak. That aside, the walk there itself was almost pleasant, for having escaped that stuffy aerie the corridors below (while still being warm) were blissfully cool compared to what he had been living in. Passing a pane of glass that was cracked slightly open Jace could have wept as the faint fingers of a remnant of breeze caressed his flushed cheeks.

Too soon they were at the doors of the King's council room. There were impressive indeed, a mammoth oaken hinged structure with the biblical scene carved into them depicting the feats and failings of King David. Somewhere in that was a warning to the Kings of Idris, that even God's chosen David had his shortcomings and the misfortune of falling low, a cautionary tale that most of the country's sovereigns tended to disregard. As Jace approached it his eyes snagged on the corner of the wood which showed a young David squaring up to the giant Goliath, which to his surprise provided some stirrings of comfort. It offered proof that the most difficult tasks could be accomplished, that even when faced with the impossible those with pluck and faith could triumph. However short he might find himself on faith, Jace had proven time and time again he had courage. He summoned it now- told himself that God favoured the little man over the giant and walked straight backed and head high into Valentine Morgenstern's presence.

It was in fact into an antechamber off the King's main rooms he was steered as far as Jace could gather, having been led this far through the servant's steps. Such a hidden spine of staircase ran through all noble houses, the swiftest way for those who were to be efficiently unseen in their duties. Passageways that were eerily silent as Jace was trailed through them.

The same could be said of the chamber he entered, for a decisive hush fell at the appearance of the two men lingering in the doorway. Jace took stock of the layout of the huge table which dominated the room before him in the single glance he was permitted before he had to sink to the expected bow. Valentine sat at its head, naturally, and it was none other than an irate Jonathan who had pride of place at his father's right hand, then Starkweather. The vacant seat beside him had to belong to Pangborn. The rest of the table's right side was made up of John Carstairs (whose face Jace dared not too closely at) and George Penhallow. More noteworthy was that it was Lucian Graymark who occupied the seat directly to Valentine's left, flanked by the Cardinal, Andrew Blackthorn, Blackwell, a Lord Ravenscar who Jace only knew by face and name and young Sebastian Verlac; the freshest face. Jace knew that he had been promoted to the Privy Council only weeks ago through Jonathan's influence to fill the vacant seat which had appeared upon the death of Kaelie Whitewillow's old husband. A juicy reward from the Prince to his bosom friend for some morally apprehensible thing Jace was surely better off knowing nothing of.

"Jonathan," the King greeted him with an invitation to rise in a smugly affable tone, though Jace could sense the mute horror of the other lords and the Prince's expression had soured from one of irritation to utter loathing, the glare he switched to Pangborn demanding an explanation. It would appear that His Majesty was the only one expecting Jace.

For once Jace found he felt exactly as Jonathan did, more than a little annoyed and completely lost. He had anticipated a private opportunity to beg for his freedom, and a chance to appeal to his father personally. There was no way that could occur in front of the entire Council.

Valentine pinned Jace with a stare and gestured toward the empty chair, the sapphire on his ring of state blinking up at the tense young man on the threshold. "Have a seat."

Jace had not paid much attention to the remaining seat, knowing as he did that the Council only ever consisted of ten of the King's inner circle. Usually they were the greatest of the realm's peers, or in the case of Starkweather, Pangborn and even Graymark who had been a fairly minor lord once, nobodies who had particularly impressed the King and whose services were valued. The eleventh seat was an honorary one, granted to the kingdom's heir on his eighteenth birthday. All in all, an extraordinarily small number of members for such an institution. Jace had encountered Kings who had up to 40 councillors to hand, but Valentine liked to answer to as few men as possible.

So Jace hesitated.

At which dawdling Valentine's gaze hardened, chips of obsidian now boring into the younger man, "Time is not a luxury we have at the moment, Jonathan."

Wordlessly and obediently Jace drew out the chair, its legs scraping unpleasantly in a reluctant yowl into the quiet before he dropped into it and tucked his legs under the table.

"Father, what is the meaning of this?" Jonathan snapped from the far end, not bothering to even pretend he possessed a shred of patience. There was a nasty new mark on his face, what looked like a raw scratch. Jace was certain it was deserved, however it had been gained.

"We need a plan of action." Valentine stated calmly without sparing his heir so much as a glance, but the edges of his voice were roughened from what might be frustration or nerves. Now that Jace's initial trepidation was wearing off he saw that there were red rims to the monarch's eyes which suggested they had been rubbed at a great many times and a wearied slouch to his shoulders. The shocking realisation that for the first time ever the King appeared discountenanced urged Jace to consider the table's other members. Sure enough, Jonathan's normally sleek silvery hair was also rumpled and the rest of the lords seemed similarly dishevelled or tired. Jace realised they had been sitting here all night, and God knew how many hours before that.

"Jonathan here has proven himself a man of swift wit and word as well as one of resource. And he had the most experience with these lowlifes, since he is the only one here to have faced them and prevailed. Therefore I would hear his opinion on the matter."

A muscle in Jonathan Morgenstern's cheek jumped at the explanation, "You do not need any further opinions on the issue. There is only one course of action, the one I have outlined to you." Ah, so that would explain why the young royal's nose was so spectacularly out of joint. This was personal, or at least to Jonathan's petty mind, as any dismissal of his suggestions were an intentional slight by Valentine to make him feel inferior and useless. Not that Jace did not know how frustrating it could be to be swept aside by His Majesty, but he was equally as exasperated by his rival as Valentine seemed. It was the merit of the plan which mattered, not the man who proposed it. Any grown man ought to have seen that.

All stony gazes now weighed on Jace once more, the King's heaviest.

"I would know the matter at hand before I formed an opinion on it."

Valentine waved at Graymark to speak, and the chosen lord chimed dully, "There is a rebel army, hundreds strong, surrounding each of the city's main gates as we speak." He gestured to the map of Alicante which was sprawled before them, five main points marked. "Yet we understand that the bulk of their force is camped by River Gate and Merchant's Gate," He pointed to each of the thoroughfares on the map. Jace snatched back a curse at the first revelation, the River Gate was the closest to the Gard- indicating that these men knew exactly where to find their King. As for the Merchant's gate, it was easily the widest of the gates in the city's walls, designed to allow the bulky carts of farmers and lines of livestock access to the city markets, which then suggested they knew where to strike to get the most men possible through. This was no amateur rabble.

Lucian pressed on tonelessly, "It goes without saying that it is at those points our defence is centred. The one who has emerged as their leader is some Jacque Tiller, an Oldcastle native and a complete non-entity until recently. He is with the group by the River Gate."

Jace knew better to ask where all this information had come from.

"Those by Merchant's Gate are headed by a Sir Thomas Highsmith, also a nobody and one of dozens of country knights who rallied to the cause. He is not in the first flush of youth either, unlike Tiller, but a veteran fighter who has the experience of a successful military career in His Majesty's own army to boast of. He is well into his fifties now- but as I say- is well accustomed to the waging of war."

Jace swallowed, chancing a flickering look up at motionless Valentine who stared back intensely, waiting still. "How are our numbers?"

"Cut off in Alicante? We would be lucky to patch together two hundred, relying heavily on the city watch. His Majesty's personal guard will not engage unless it is absolutely necessary. They are needed here to protect the royal family. Aid is on its way, every lord that has men to raise has sent promise of them on pain of death, but we have another two days at best until they arrive. This Tiller and Highsmith will know from their own scouts."

"So they will strike before that" Jace mused gravely, meeting Luke's uncharacteristically dismal expression. Luke sighed and shrugged, falling back in his seat, the lack of reply speaking volumes.

"There is no need for us to engage anyone!" Blackwell spluttered at the lapse in conversation, "His Majesty and his family are perfectly safe here in the Gard. We ought to pour our energies into the defence of these walls and wait until our supporting army arrives and chases them back to whatever hovels they came from!"

 _Spoken like a true aristocrat,_ Jace thought with burning bitterness, "They are going to breach the city walls!" He flung back twice as ferociously, appalled at the attitude he could see nestling into the minds of several of the lords present and the growing resolution tightening on the faces of Starkweather and Verlac strongest. They would move to save their own hides and let the rest of the world go to hell. Although he was not precisely astounded, Jace remained sickened. "You think they will book rooms in Alicante's inns and wait patiently for a rival force to arrive? They will sack Alicante in the meantime, burning, plundering and raping their way through our city! There are _thousands_ of innocents out there, who it is our duty to protect!"

"We cannot slam and bolt the Gard's gates, then raise the drawbridge and leave them to their fate. It is un-Christian and cowardly," Luke rumbled in agreement.

"Thus _we_ strike first," Jonathan hissed emphatically, leaning into Valentine as though closer proximity would make what he had to say more appealing, "We send our men out under the cover of night to slit every one of their commanders' damn throats before they even know we've opened the gates." He flung an upturned palm toward the King as though it were obvious, then slammed it back to the table with such force the whole structure shook, accentuating his following sentiment. "We treat them as you would any dog who forgets who his master is. You put it _down_!"

Jace's already rapidly waning store of patience ran bone dry, "Have you learned a single thing from Oldcastle? There are only so many times you can beat a dog down before it turns on you and tears your throat out!"

"What then would you have me do?" Valentine demanded, before Jonathan could flip that great table with his temper and charge for Jace with the intention of planting his fist in his face. Jace longed for him to try, but he forced his attention back entirely to Valentine, "What you need is time," he said slowly, looking to Luke for reassurance, "You believe two days would suffice?"

Cautiously Graymark nodded, "I pray so."

"Do more than pray," Jace fired back before he could stop himself, gaze shooting back to Valentine as his plan began to properly take form, "If you need time then you buy it. Parley with them. Send word to the leaders that they will be met with at a time and place of your choosing, I would recommend Tiller by River Gate since it is closest to here should the need for a hasty retreat arise. Then you make a show of listening to what they have to say and once they have an army at their backs they will no longer be so willing to attack, I daresay. They shall disband and disappear, while your act of mercy and obvious concern for _their_ concerns will mitigate claims the commons are mistreated and that any pleas for justice in Idris will fall on deaf ears."

Valentine pondered it all in a frightening silence for what seemed an age before he loosed a slow, serpentine smile. "And should our spokesman's merciful offer of peace on our behalf be ignored and this mass fail to disband, then we show our wrath instead," he inclined his head slightly to the right and Jonathan as he added, "Under cover of darkness."

Jace's blood and adrenaline was still pounding through him, but he did register further disappointment at word of a spokesman. He had expected Valentine to speak to Tiller himself, leader to leader.

Yet his elation, childlike though it was at Valentine's recognition and pleasure that his plan be chosen, chewed rapidly away at his wariness and he failed to see that he had made a comfortable seat for himself: right where Valentine wanted him.

"We are glad you think parlaying with them prudent, very glad indeed. As we mentioned earlier you have obvious skill with that tongue, all controlled by that perfect kind of pragmatic and persuasive mind we require." His Majesty pressed a forefinger to his chin and smiled in earnest while Jace's formerly relieved heartrate began to quicken with dread at what he had helped unfold for himself. "God has shown His will, I believe. It is most excellent that you wish to talk to these men for it is to you they wish to speak, Jonathan Herondale."

-00000000000000-

* * *

 _ **A/N: Classic Valentine. As for Jonathan, I don't think Izzy hit him hard enough. You might be the future King of Idris Jonathan, but Isabelle is the queen of the bitch slap. If that encounter reminded anyone of a twisted recreation of Clary and Jace's first interaction and some other moments, then good. I am trying to present their relationship as the nasty flip-version of Clace's- all self serving lust.**_

 _ **But Jonathan whyyyy?! Because just like Jace he thinks himself unworthy of any kind of love- that would be your fault Valentine, of course. But unlike Jace, Jonathan believes no one would willingly want to be with him to the degree that he resorts to force, underpinning that having never had any sort of loving, meaningful relationship he can't comprehend how one would work, not really grasping anything other than his own loneliness and lust (same with the Jonathan of TMI and his Clary sister/queen obsession, though I did NOT want to go down that route with this fic). So in summation: Jace acts on his lack of self worth by trying to become someone of worth- which he wrongly believes he is not already. Jonathan has no appreciation self worth either, not in the ways that matter (ie. beyond his sense of entitlement as the Crown Prince) and takes the view 'well fine, I will behave in the vilest ways possible because why the hell not y'all already hate me/look down on me.'**_

 _ **No worries. I am not leaving you on that cliffhanger...**_


	17. Into the Fire

_Into the Fire_

 _ **A/N: Well if you haven't recovered from the shock of this two in one update then neither have I. But technically the events of these chapters are really part one and two of one colossal chapter, which not even I am cruel enough to whack together in one go. But seriously- are the chapters too long? I know they take bloody forever to write. But it's a labour of "love" (translation: self doubt, cursing and general illiteracy) which I am happy enough to shoulder unless you guys are genuinely suffering your way through.**_

 _ **In the interest of fairness, I am morally obliged to warn you I experienced self-imposed Jalec feels with this one. Also, Jace makes a great Jerry Springer/Jeremy Kyle.**_

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

The chamber Jace was ushered to next by Lucian Graymark was much more pleasant than the one he had previously occupied. In fact it was much nicer than any room he had ever occupied, buffering the astonishing promises Valentine had just made. After the declaration that it was Jace who would be his mouthpiece at the meeting due to take place Valentine had disbanded the entire Council. Then, once he was alone with only Jace and a chary Graymark and word arrived that Tiller had agreed to the proposed discussion, Valentine had made another proposal. Or rather a gift. In this, should Jace do as he was bid to perfection his reward was great. Studying Jace with a look that was partly proud delight and part challenge he had announced that he could not very well send a diplomat in the pay of France to speak on his behalf. So Jace would speak to the rebels as His Grace the Duke of Broceland.

Jace presently approached the low table his grand new abode housed as subtly as he could, running his fingertips over the gilded surface of a small box that rested there. He flipped it open curiously to find it empty, at which he deflated slightly. Luke was still listing orders to the wide-eyed maid who failed to peel her attention from Jace. The young man under scrutiny felt his cheeks pink at Luke's mention of some soap and water. True, it had been a while since he had enjoyed the luxury of a proper wash and the fresh clothes he heard talk of would also be extremely welcome. Not that any of this soothed the embarrassment of having sat through a whole Council session looking and possibly smelling like he had never heard of a bathtub. He pretended fascination at the various accoutrements scattered across this little desk even as his ears reddened.

Unlike the box the inkpot beside it was full, and Jace automatically stroked at the fine feather adorning the accompanying quill. The soft texture under his calloused touch was calming, and to cement his growing composure he counted to twenty in his head after the disinclined pattering of the servant girl's exit faded before turning to face Graymark.

"Will there be anything else you require- my lord?" With the final two words there was as much a question as lay in the first section, and Luke seemed less than jubilant at having to complete the query with the honorific. Jace was still too shocked to appreciate it. On a level he could empathise, should he survive the next day his would be the most incredible rise since- well Jocelyn Fairchild's.

"Let us not get too concerned with addresses and titles. None of them need stick until after tomorrow." He shifted his weight as Luke nodded, his lips pinched into a tight line. Graymark knew Valentine better than anyone, as well as anyone other than Valentine could comprehend what sped through that wicked, brilliant mind- and he had no idea what to make of this either. If Alec offered to hand a dukedom to an ambassador without warning Jace would probably look as though he had been kicked by a horse too.

Jace further suspected the lord knew not what to make of _him_ either. He was as of yet an untested upstart on the verge of becoming the wealthiest noble in the Kingdom. For someone like Luke who had spent years clawing a life out at this court and bending over backwards to do Valentine's bidding it must indeed be jarring to watch. Sitting in on one Council session had been exhausting for Jace, trying to imagine the hundreds Luke must have participated in was difficult. He guessed that they were the source of many of the grey streaks in the courtier's hair.

"Is Alec- Lord Lightwood still here?"

Luke nodded, some emotion beginning to thaw on his face. As though that at least he could wrap his head around, "Aye. No one has been allowed to leave the court. Both the Lightwoods are still here."

"Might I see Alec? Just Alec." After weeks of doubt and his very life dangling up in the air with his position Jace longed for his friend's solidity, his reliability. Alec would help him untangle Valentine's intentions, then draw up a concrete plan or several and above all just be here. Alec was his rock and ever would be if Jace survived the coming hours. Besides, his friend was owed an apology.

"I will see to it," Luke agreed, before he began to say something else and then hesitated. He turned toward the door and Jace twisted away, back to his inspection of the new surroundings.

"Cease requests."

"What?" Jace's mind skidded back to the lord who had paused with his hand hovering over the doorknob. "Whether or not you remain the Duke of Broceland you may at least act it tonight. Should the title stay with you afterward then ensure you never _ask_ for anything again. It is when you are most uncertain you must appear utterly assured. A lord demands what he would have."

The ghost of his old amicability dashed across his face then, "You will adjust quicker than I did. You have lived at Europe's greatest courts, so you ought to have more of an idea of how a duke behaves than anyone else elevated so might do."

"Graymark, I rarely know what the hell I am doing" the admission burst from him before Jace could measure the wisdom of making it. They had been allies in the conjuring if the Princess's betrothal but there had been no reason to think they were anything but that. The two men barely knew one another and were certainly not friends. But by God, if Jace had ever felt out of his depth before, those scenarios became a puddle when compared to the bottomless depths he was frantically floundering in now. So the closest thing he could conjure to reassurance was to be found in the way in which Luke looked at him, alongside the kind words he had just said and the prematurely greying beard and hair which made him look older and sager than he was. There was something so inherently _fatherly_ about the man. It made Jace wonder why the man had never married.

Luke smiled in earnest now, albeit a touch wryly. "You see? You have already mastered it." He made to depart once again, but the kindness prompted Jace to ask one final question; "The Princess- you are certain she is safe here?"

Luke halted short of vanishing through the open door and peered back at Jace with the most serious expression that he had ever worn in the younger man's presence. "If I thought for a moment Clary were not the safest she might possibly be I would not tolerate her being her a second longer," he growled. He softened a tad before adding, "I should imagine at this hour Her Highness would be abed, but I could have one of her maids wake her before you and Tiller are due to meet..."

More than anything he had ever wanted in his short, wretched existence he wanted to look upon her face now, to see her one more time- but no. He had hurt Clary enough. Moreover, if he succeeded on the morrow then knowing she would be awaiting him here would sweeten the reward. Then he could look her in the eye- not as her equal- but as someone who would never leave her again, who could promise his service to her until his last breath and know the vow he could keep. One step closer.

He told Lucian none of that, of course, in spite of whatever spirit of solidarity had begun to grow between them. "I see no need to disturb or distress her," he said softly instead, "God willing I will see her tomorrow. But Alec Lightwood I need to see tonight."

Luke nodded resolutely, "Very well. Might I suggest you try to rest afterward? You will need all the sleep you can get for what is certain to be a long day ahead." Jace agreed, eyes raking over the vast, plush bed, adorned in blue grey and black. Herondale colours. Were it not for the imminent danger that lay in his early morning meeting with the man determined to put everyone who earned more than five pounds a year in ditch and set fire to them, it might have been the best night sleep he had ever had.

After Luke departed the warm water arrived before Alec did, so Jace set about cleaning himself as thoroughly and quickly as he could, before gladly drawing on a cotton shirt which was the softest he had ever laid his hands on. He failed to hold back the long sigh that escaped him as it slid over the taut muscles in his back. He was attempting to tame his wet hair when Alec finally charged into the room.

"Took you long enough," Jace commented, a genuine smile flicking across his lips at the sight of his friend. Alec looked a mess, dark hair a rat's nest and what looked like a coat pulled over a nightshirt. To his relief an answering smile lit up the familiar features. "I did not believe them when I was told," Alec admitted, still panting from what must have been a tremendous dash. He crashed into Jace without further warning, and squeezed him into an embrace so tight that his eyes began to water. From the breath-stopping pressure upon his ribs, not real tears of any sort of joy or relief, Jace made a half-hearted attempt to convince himself.

"You bastard!" Alec spat, releasing him at last, "I thought you had finally done it. Achieved an absolutely idiotic and needless death, that is."

"So did I," Jace admitted breathlessly, with the beginnings of a laugh tugging at the confession.

"God in heaven," Alec drew back further and his eyes skimmed Jace's frame while he fidgeted under the inspection, "I knew, I knew something was amiss. Ask Izzy! Jace- what did they do to you? Lord Graymark said you had been arrested, then something of a test of loyalty? One that should you pass would bring with it your restoration?"

Jace shrugged. "Nothing I haven't survived," he jabbed faintly at a jest.

Alec did not laugh or even smile, peering around the fashionable rooms looking about as dumbfounded as Jace felt.

"Nothing I don't intend to survive."

They moved to two of the huge, lavish chairs by the table at Jace's behest and he sank into the cushioned perch happily. "What has already happened is of little account. What matters at the moment is what is yet to come." As succinctly and accurately as he could manage Jace filled his friend in, watching the young lord grown more and more pensive.

To Alec's credit he adjusted to the sudden change in their situation well, and quickly. Just as Jace hoped he might. He interrupted rarely, and only at that to ask valid questions, highlighting angles of thought that had never occurred to Jace. When all was finished, Alec loosed a heartfelt sigh. "This is-unheard of."

"A peace talk?"

"Not that- this... trial of Valentine's. To determine what? Whether or not you gallop off into the sunset with your old friends? Yesterday he had you accused of treason, or was trying to get you to utter something treasonous so he _could_ accuse you of treason. Are there not laws surrounding such things? You cannot imprison someone for a fortnight without charge."

Jace shrugged, "The King of Idris can do as he likes. He was ever an unorthodox ruler. One who handpicks his followers. Every man of significance in this country owes his power to Valentine, he knows it and it is this knowledge which keeps every man who matters in debt to Valentine. Loyal to him. Not one man sits on that Council or takes a pension from the royal treasury without having earned it. Even Jonathan has to prove himself. Why should I be any different? Besides, he knew that given my freedom again the first thing I would do would be to bolt back to Adamant; the only offer that might make me reconsider is that dukedom. Beyond that, any other negotiator would be gutted by those rebels in a heartbeat. The only one they might pause to fell is the last Herondale. That pause we need, the people of this city need. I am the only one who they might listen to. But a French ambassador cannot carry the authority of King Valentine to weigh down his words. An Idrisian duke can. So I get a conditional title, one that has yet to be vested to me officially. If I succeed then I get to keep it. Those are the terms of my peace treaty with the Morgensterns. It is quite ingenious really. Valentine at his finest."

"From emissary to duke. It does sound like one of your novels. Speaking of which-"

"Don't you dare," Jace pierced his friend with the fondest death stare he could muster, watching the mix of shadows and candlelight whirl and dance across Alec's face as he moved, " _I_ am sorry. So sorry. What I said was uncalled for."

Alec dropped his eyes, twisting his hands together in his lap as he was wont to do when he was on edge, or overwhelmed, "You need not be apologetic," he said with soft solemnity, "You were right."

Jace scoffed in surprise, "This night just gets more and more remarkable. It continues to defy all likelihoods and reason."

Alec laughed then, snorting quietly as he inhaled and thumping Jace on the arm, "Do not get too accustomed to it. Just because I am attempting to allow my heart a little more reign over my head does not mean I am going to be saying those particular three words any more often. Or ever again." Then the blue gaze steeled, "I am coming with you. Tomorrow."

"Alec- this could be dangerous. Just because we have promised not to fight does not mean that the rebels will keep their word."

"I know. But I have known you nearly a decade for Christ's sake. Walking down the street with you is fraught with peril thanks to your stupid mouth yet I still do it."

"Let us hope my stupid mouth proves its uses tomorrow."

Alec grasped his arm again, his grip as firm as the determination in the face that looked into Jace's, "I am with you Jace Herondale. For tomorrow's danger and whatever comes after."

Jace blinked, struggling to dislodge the lump which had appeared in his throat. He knew not what he had done to deserve Alec, nor more importantly what heinous sins Alec had committed in his early life to deserve being strung along by this foolish allegiance. What he did know, as he reached out to clasp the hand of the man he had chosen for his brother, was that for however long or short his life was fated to be- starting at dawn, he would do all he could to make himself deserving of that loyalty.

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

Despite the brightness of the late morning sun the light slanting through the elaborate coloured glass of the church's great windows was pale and the pews remained shadowy. For Clary, the chill clinging to the stone walls and ceramic floors was the only discomfort of the building. Though she knew the Church throughout Europe was divided and filled with conflict, that not far beyond where she knelt blood was spilt for the denial that the jewelled chalice on the alter held the blood of the Saviour and men in scarlet robes grew fat while good Christians starved, this church itself remained peaceful.

The purity of the silence that hung in the air with the lingering sweetness of old incense made her feel as if the whole world was holding its breath, that no one could look upon the beauty of God's house without succumbing to a quiet awe. For the young Princess, this was her only haven, surrounded by the twinkling glow of candles in the far corner and the welcoming serenity of the many icons she almost felt safe. For the tranquil expression in the marble face of the Madonna held a kindly smile-the like of which her own mother had never worn- and the outstretched arms of her Lord betokened a promise of hope she felt so bereft of.

One of the priests of the royal household, Father Jerimiah, floated about the alter preparing for the next Mass, but he was content to leave her be, as her presence here each morning since their return to the Gard was now a familiar one. Just as she would ultimately face her Creator alone, it seemed that as a Princess the only thing she was permitted to do by herself was pray. No one disturbed her or insisted on keeping her company while she knelt at her prie-dieu or here in a Church pew. Clary was happy to revel in whatever calm she could find. She bowed her head and threaded the worn amber beads of her rosary, lips soundlessly forming the age old words of the _Ave Maria_ and drawing solace from their constancy; centuries had passed and the words had not faded, nor did she believe they ever would. The greatest comfort in her life, perhaps the only one, was that she could be sure of God's love. In the absence of parents and of lovers this love she always had, and always would. It was her one guarantee.

Whatever illusion of sanctified peace she had been enjoying was promptly shattered as the low creak of the wooden pew beside her alerted her to the presence of a fellow worshipper.

One that happened to be her brother.

She would not turn her head even marginally towards him, though she did raise it from her clasped hands. Nonetheless, she felt him move in, leaning closer until the warmth of his breath stirred her cheek and an involuntary shudder tore down her spine. "Now, what on earth could you have confessed that requires such a long and ardent penance?"

Clary almost shuddered again, for it had indeed been some time ago that she had left the confessional. Not due to the fact he had hit home with any of his horrible and seedy presumptions, but simply because it gave her a harrowing insight into how long he had been watching her.

Until now her brother had been mercifully distant, having not spoken at length with her since their return to the Gard. She had met him lounging against the water gate and grinning at her like it was his palace and not their father's she was entering. She had disembarked the barge that had brought on the final leg of the journey to the Gard studiously ignoring the hand he had offered to assist her climb onto the dock. Instead Clary had hitched up her skirts like a fishwife trodding through inches of muck and made her own clambering descent. It was not even remotely regal, but with no one of importance watching Clary had not cared much. She would much rather look ludicrous than have to put her bare hand in his. She edged away from him now too.

"Why do you not look to your own conscience, brother?" she all but spat out of the corner of her mouth. Having come to appreciate that the present danger she and everyone else in this court were in was the result of Jonathan's atrocities at Oldcastle, and knowing of the summer burnings that had not relented in the Crown Prince's absence she could not look upon him with anything other than disgust at best and loathing at worst. Then there was the small matter of what he had tried to do to Isabelle. At first Izzy had refused to tell her a thing, but her troubles had been all over her face Clary had been relentless until the whole sordid tale had come burbling out. God help her, if he so much as tried to lay a hand on any of her ladies again she would need days in the confessional to be absolved of what she would do to him.

Undeterred by her hostility Jonathan sidled closer still, continuing to whisper in her ear in a manner that was dreadfully inappropriate in a house of God. There was no way that she could flee, for striding out would only welcome more unwanted attention and she would never treat God with such discourtesy. Rationally she knew there was nothing her brother could do to her, not here, but it made no difference.

"Tell me, do you really confess-"He slid his hand over hers- "Every single little transgression?"

Clary jerked away as though his icy palms had scalded her. "That is how the sacrament is supposed to work," she snapped, "We need to confess all sins to be shriven, not just the rare few we regret," she flung the barb at him desperately, then ending a wordless apology to her Holy Mother for her interrupted decade she hastily blessed herself and clambered somewhat clumsily back to her seat, while Jonathan fluidly copied the motion and returned to her level within seconds.

"Surely, were we all to confess each and every little sin- both in thought and deed- the priests would not have the time to do anything else. You see we are not all as pure as you, my sweet sister. Assuming you are still pure." Clary's eyes flicked to his straightaway, the gasp wrenched from her throat echoing around the building. Father Jerimiah shot them a single questioning glance before continuing to light the alter candles. He was not about to interrupt the King's two children.

"What do you mean by that?" she demanded in an undertone while her brother's mouth curved to the side in a snide smirk, "Never fret, not even our father would violate the holy confidentiality of the confessional, so whatever it is you admit to need go no further. Though what I would not pay to discover what exactly His Majesty murmurs through that lattice-work…"

"You are obscene."

Now he grinned at her properly, his hand darting into her lap before she realised what was happening and nipping at her thigh which sent her leaping out of her skin, shooting him an appalled look. Jonathan's smile grew even further, "Be that as it may, clearly still a prim little virgin are you not? No thanks to our friend Jace Herondale."

Of the entirety of the statement it was, surprisingly, the final part that she chose to attack first; "He is not _our_ friend."

Jonathan's black eyes glittered savagely, although he finally slid back across the pew from her, "Precisely. How long did you really imagine your doe eyes on him would go unnoticed? I can assure you, dearest, our father is not inclined to tolerate your panting after a Herondale any longer."

Clary got unsteadily to her feet and seized the opportunity to escape, pausing only to genuflect and give the priest what she hoped was a fully convincing smile before rotating slowly to face her brother, leaning across just close enough to hiss within earshot. "Never speak to me like that again. In fact, unless we have an audience and the situation demands it," she drew back and began her retreat, "do not speak to me."

"Oh? But then how would I impart the knowledge you desire?" He caught at the hand still resting on the end of the pew, to help her balance as she'd moved to genuflect.

"There is nothing you could have to say that would interest me even slightly."

"You think not, sister? Even in the midst of wondering where your darling Jace is this morning?" Despite herself, despite everything, Clary froze in place at the threat laced so tenderly throughout those words.

"What do you mean?" She hated the way her voice wavered with the question, hated that she even had to ask it.

Jonathan smiled victoriously, and a slant of the rising sun's rays broke through one of the clear side windows, turning the pale blond of his head pure white, like white hot iron. "Do you remember, when we were children how he never would stray far from you? It always made hide-and-go-seek easy. If you were behind the door in the room he was behind the curtain."

"Jonathan-"she fought to keep her voice down and tone reasonable-"spit it out."

By way of answer the Prince rose fluidly and gripped her arm, tucking her hand in the crevice between his elbow and torso so tightly that he squashed it. Only when they were outside and blinking rapidly to get used to the new brightness did he speak again, "You seem hell bent on blaming our current crisis on me. Did you ever pause to consider the implications of a rebel army who adopted a Herondale as their figurehead?"

Fear closed in a cold fist around her heart. Of course she had thought of it; she had almost passed out from sheer terror when she had first learnt of it through Simon. Her one comfort was that Jace had left when he had, that he would be far away and safe in France when this latest storm broke.

"It would have been worse than stupid to leave him roaming around, so for his own safety and for ours Father decided to keep him in the Gard."

For a heartbeat Clary was confused, if he were still at court Jace would have sought her out and even if he had not she should have seen him abroad, the rooms of the palace were confinement enough that she saw everyone here at least once daily. Then the realisation sank its icy teeth in and Clary's steps across the small green between the chapel and palace's main building faltered. She almost tripped over her own feet, clutching at Jonathan instinctively and as she was jerked back upright her eyes latched onto the bland, brutish prison tower.

"Where?" She breathed, beyond caring if her fright showed as it was bound to.

Jonathan prattled on as though he had not heard her, "It only stood to reason that Jace's name was allied to the rebel's cause by his own volition, therefore the only thing to be done was to let the cardinal question him." Now she was suddenly grateful she had yet to break her fast and her stomach was empty. She had too good an idea of what the Cardinal's methods of interrogation were, she had heard of the bloodthirst with which he pursued those suspected of heresy, and according to reports those taken in often found their bodies mangled and broken beyond repair, death coming before a confession. What he might do to a man accused of treason...

She was gripping Jonathan with everything she had, she realised. The hands she glanced down at were chalky in pallor and not merely from the strength of her grasp. Her brother was enjoying this, damn him to hell. He was still peering down at her with nothing short of undiluted, savage glee. Because he was not finished. Whatever was left, he was still lording it over her. "As it happens"- here his happiness faded a touch- "Your delicate feminine sensibilities have no reason to be troubled. He is still in one piece, and all the better, for once Father accepted his innocence he found a use for him."

He paused at the doors to the main building and Clary caught sight of Isabelle and Aline waiting for her at the foot of the staircase. Izzy's face darkened at the sight of the Crown Prince and Jonathan in turn sighed theatrically, his sunny mood dampened at the prospect of not being the solo narrator bringing her up to speed.

"Long story short little sister, Jace is to play the hero of the piece once more. Having swayed our father in the Council chamber into staying his vengeful hand Jace is to intercede with the rebel leader on our behalf. He rode out at dawn downriver. The plan is that he diverts them long enough with his speech for the armies of our bannermen to arrive. His Majesty is convinced that the will of God will determine events one way or the other. What you should have been praying for Clary is your beloved. Provided he does all that is asked of him he returns to a dukedom."

That failed to register with Clary as she squared her already stiff shoulders against the violent shaking that had already begun through her limbs, "And if not?"

"Well, every army needs cannon fodder," Jonathan concluded chirpily. Her brother's light-heartedness indicated which outcome he thought more likely. He made no effort to appear lamenting or guilty as he kept speaking, "You would do well to know that I did try to dissuade His Majesty, Clary. I did urge him to consider that a Herondale should not be trusted with such a great task at such a crucial moment. What is to stop him ushering his would-be army through the gates we have conveniently opened for him?"

"As though that is likely," Clary snapped as her blood started to boil.

"You think not? You may be more innocent than I thought. You really are a woman of tremendous faith. While that may appeal to some, as far as I am concerned that only leaves room for naivety." He caught at her wrist and spun her to face him, preventing an attempt to leave him and storm indoors. "Think of the facts! Sister, the man hates our family. He resents us and our inheritance, and always will. Then months after his return to Idris the years of peace simmer to discontent. Now this, the first coherent uprising against a monarch in over a century."

"They are not against the King but his advisors," Clary attempted to object.

Jonathan's eyes only flared with more vehemence, "Who appoints those advisors? For someone who spends such time burrowing her way through our history books you mean to tell me you cannot see that such is the card of complaint all rebels make until they get a real chance to depose their sovereign?"

Try as she might, Clary could not accurately deny that. It was, as well both she and Jonathan knew, the card their great grandfather played when he took up arms against the Herondales. In that sense then there was an ironic justice in their situation now. "Jace would never challenge our father," she stated instead, flatly. "He would certainly not stand with anyone who would."

Her brother beheld her with a scowl of frustrated pity, "He has used you and abused your trust, you silly chit. And should he stumble upon more of that damnable luck he seems to possess and come back I doubt he has finished using you." She had to scoff, her noise of scorn echoing off the near empty bailey as only a lad darted past bearing a corner of a burnt loaf pilfered from the kitchens, not sparing the royal children an ounce of his attention as he sped away. The Gard was all but empty, since her father had taken a large entourage downriver with him to a meeting with the Clave.

"Of all people Jonathan, you will not beguile _me_ with your pretence at brotherly concern. Your surge in protective behaviour is more alarming than it is touching. Now you and I are well enough acquainted for it to make me wonder what is in it for you."

"Regardless of what you may say or do Clary ,you will always be Valentine Morgenstern's daughter to him and part of him will forever hate you for it. Perhaps for now that part will not win over his actions, but there may come a day..."

At that Clary began to walk away, yanking herself from him so violently she almost tore the fabric of her sleeve. As she passed under the shadow of the doorway he shot one final seething prophecy at her in a vengeful hiss, "The stab in the back may not come this day but come it will Clary. If you are stupid enough to keep pursuing him after this then I hope that betrayal comes when you need him most."

The curse sent yet another ripple of horror down her spine, though at that moment she wanted to run to Isabelle and shake the solemn look off her face more. One shared look at her friend and she knew they were on the same page. She still felt the arrogance in the smile Jonathan had branded onto her moving back as she drew out of his earshot.

"What did they do to him?" She snapped shrilly, "What have they done?"

Isabelle shook her head slowly, "I know not. I have not seen Jace Clary, only Alec and then briefly. I barely know what is happening- your hands" she looked down at their joined fingers with concern – "They are freezing. Come, let me-"

"If you do not know what is going on then find me someone who does!" The command hung in the air, and Isabelle eventually released her hands silently and dipped to a curtsey. It had not been her friend who had spoken, but a princess.

"As you wish, Your Highness" Aline finished for her, mirroring the curtsey and slipping away, catching at Izzy's wrist as she passed to drag her along with her.

Dizzy and still shaking, Clary mounted the many steps to her chambers alone.

 _-0000000000000-_

* * *

Tom did not think he had ever been this excited. Until this the furthest he had ever gone from his family's farmstead had been the neighbouring town on market day. Now the city of Alicante sprawled before him, Idris' glorious capital. Though from here the view was not all that impressive. All that could be seen from the present angle was the squat stone walls that ringed the city, and perhaps the odd steeple behind it. You could however see the tops of the Gard's tallest towers, and Jacques had pointed them out to him. He'd explained that the fortress had been built purposefully on a hill, as many a fortress was, so that the people and fine lords inside would be able to see any coming attackers. That meant, Jacques had explained with bright satisfaction, that the King knew they were here.

Young Tom hadn't been able to share in his joy at the time, since he had still seen so little of the city, but yesterday Jacques had taken him to a nearby hillside when he'd gone to meet with their scouts and from up there the view had been much better. He'd seen almost the whole of Alicante, and for the very first and only time in his life little Tom had felt powerful; like the whole world was at his feet. He hadn't realised until he had left it how much the turf smoke filling their cramped cottage had choked him.

It reassured him that coming here was worth it. When Jacques had first set out from Oldcastle Ma had forbidden Tom to go with him, and Sybbie had been beside herself with great gulping sobs and screams at her husband that had her voice cracking and crackling with rage and fear. She thought that her husband's place was at home with her. But the whole thing had been Jacques idea and since Henry and all the other village lads were going, defiance had come easy to Tom. Honest, he doubted any of the ones at home had even noticed he were gone. True, none of them others who had gone were as young as Tom, and Jacques had been _furious_ when he'd found Tom following him. Since the worst of the bruises from the last soldiers' visit at the start of the summer had yet to fade, his anger had been frightening. Still, after the initial bout of rage Jacques had agreed to let him stay, insisting he would be assigned chores and was to stay out of the way while he did them. Under no circumstances was Tom to join the fighting, since Sybilla would kill Jacques long before the King could if she knew he had let her baby brother come along. All the same, another boy from the village, Johnny Thatcher, had pressed a nasty looking blade into his hand- the handle on it was huge in his small and grimy child's hand- and muttered a gruff "just in case."

Tom had worked hard, no one could argue with that. He watered and fed the horses as they were bid, he ran back and forth between the camps with whatever message Jacques had to send- it was with no small pride Tom carried the knowledge that he was fast becoming the only one Jacques trusted enough to carry them.

But today, today was going to be the best yet. Jonathan Herondale was coming to meet them. After a childhood of hearing about the Herondale kings from Grandpa's stories he was finally going to meet one. Well, not a king as such but nonetheless... The last of Idris' greatest lines. And Tom would see him with his very own eyes.

After that Jacques swore they would have a real leader and with the help of God a real king. One God would smile on enough for there to be no more bad yields, and once they had the new King's ear there would no more soldiers or priests to pummel their hard earned pennies out of them. They might know some peace. Things would be better and bellies would be full. Sybbie's next babies wouldn't die, his other sister Liza could have enough of a dowry to marry the wool merchant's son like she wanted and Ma would stop crying herself to sleep.

The world was changing, and Tom would be amongst those who changed it.

- _00000000000000-_

* * *

The chosen meeting place was about a mile out of the city. The small diplomatic party had been accompanied by a modest contingent of soldiers, most of whom were not real fighters, having been borrowed from the city guard and mixed with a handful of those who were indeed members of the King's personal force. In the end there could not be a great difference between breaking up drunken brawlers on the streets and stopping a tussle between peasants and royalists. Either way, they had been stuffed into Morgenstern livery and armour, and what they lacked in military proficiency they more than made up for with the sheer amount of weaponry they carried. Alec could say with his hand pressed to heart that he had gone to war with less steel than he now carried. Would that he had a longbow, but travelling on horseback made carrying his preferred weapon impossible. Between himself and his party they were currently stocked with a range of dirks, daggers and a further array of knives, swords, and crossbows. All of which were bolted and pointed toward the main road ahead of them.

The White Gate which the court had taken on departing and returning to the city looked out unto the chips and slabs of once regularly cut and carefully laid stone which still remained of the old Roman road, while this one was more of a dirt trek than road. To their right the strengthening sun sparkled off the Princewater, its smooth, silvery surface making it seem like a strip of molten metal. Although occasionally glancing sparks of sunlight flitted into one's eye and made keeping watch difficult, the river was overall soothing. The comforting slap of water against the dirt banks and its rhythmic lapping at the stones and pebbles the river slid over was a mild balm to Alec's nerves and the river also sent frequent cool whistles of wind. Although the dawn's dew still speckled and winked up at him, being out in the open and fully under even the newborn sun's stare was surprisingly warming. The duck egg blue of the unbroken sky overhead also reassured Alec that it was going to be a beautiful day, weather wise. He offered up his hundredth silent prayer that this might be a fortuitous omen.

As he had fallen into the habit of doing intermittently since they had first mounted up in the Gard, he sent another fleeting look at Jace, to his left. His friend's features were schooled into the neutral, borderline bored mask he had mastered years ago. If he was nervous, if he was having his doubts, he hid it well. But then Jace always had. The two had exchanged few words so far today and there had been little acknowledgment of his presence other than the small nod he had received in the courtyard, yet he knew without having it vocalised that his being here was valued.

Whatever riot was taking place internally, externally Jace looked the part. He was every inch the lord, perfectly poised in the saddle and armoured; simplistic but fine, each plate so thoroughly polished they might have been silver dinner plates. He wore no helm, and much as anxiety wrangled in Alec's gut at the prospect of such a vital part of his body left vulnerable he appreciated the necessity of Jace's head being bare. This way, every inch of those distinctive Herondale blond curls was on display. Though it was the Morgenstern banner that crackled in the breeze above him he was flanked too by the flag of the duchy of Broceland and there could be no mistaking his heritage. The stirrings of old feeling distracted him momentarily, for Jace had filled out since the last time Alec had seen him in armour. He was broader in the shoulders and fitted more snugly into the armour than he once had. Once not so long ago the thoughts would have perturbed him, or heralded another onslaught of self-loathing, but remarkably today Alec's mind turned easily back to the task at hand.

Jace's eyes were also turned ahead, less as though he were scrutinising the terrain for any evidence of Tiller's arrival and more as if he were looking beyond the road ahead and into whatever came next. These days Alec did not dare wonder what came next. He could not ignore his father's letters forever. He could not do as they bid and choose a suitable bride, for they had reached the point of a last resort. Now his mother and father had reached a rare moment of agreement; they would have to arrange a marriage for their eldest son and heir, as only a sizeable dowry could provide the landslide of coin required to sweep away the beginning of their debts. Worse, the greatest reason why Alec was not prepared to begin a contemplation of obedience had not been seen in weeks.

How exactly Magnus Bane of all people was exempt from Valentine's lockdown in the Gard was beyond him. At some point between the lakelands and Alicante he had made himself scarce and as irritated by his absence as the King might have been he was not prepared to waste men or resources trying to find him. That he had disappeared without so much as a by your leave to Alec hurt, hurt in a way he had not expected it to. For the first time since his adolescent infatuation with Jace he had pandered to his deviant nature, allowing himself to indulge in thoughts that he should not be having. Certainly with Magnus he had let himself act on those once forbidden thoughts for the first time. So his flight from court at such a time of tension merely added to Alec's many stresses. He supposed for a man like Magnus, who was more flamboyantly individual than Alec would ever have the confidence to be, and who had told him on many occasions that he cared not one whit what was thought of him, Alec had only been a diversion from an otherwise mundane world. Alec must have been another stepping stone towards whatever self fulfillment Magnus strove for, for whatever happiness he could find that would not melt away when the sun rose.

If he had not locked his heart away tightly and buried it deep he might have said that Magnus Bane had broken it. As his twisted luck may have it just before Magnus' covert exit Alec had almost decided that he was willing to let his heart rule him this time. What Jace had said before, albeit in a fit of temper, had wounded Alec so because he knew that the jibes rang true; never once had he poured his whole heart and soul into anything. If Jace could let his heart rule and get a duchy for the gamble then mayhap Alec could live that way, just a little.

Now he feared that even if he did make it back to the Gard he would never do so. Not if he had to marry a woman at his parents' urging. No one's daughter, no matter how well bred, connected or wealthy would ever hold his heart that way. It was not as though he could pose that argument to the Count and Countess. He feared that even should he they would not believe him. His father had always laughed at the non-existent sweethearts and trysts, clapping his son on the back and proclaiming merrily that he would grow out of it soon enough. He had attributed Alec's lack of interest in women and marriage to his shyness, once admitting at the table as they broke their fast and Alec flushed desperately that he had been much the same with women as a lad. To that comment Izzy had added her own scathing remark under her breath "a pity you did not remain so" without glancing up from buttering her bread.

Without meaning to, Alec had immersed himself in his own inner conflicts until he came close to forgetting the prospect of a future one. His horse's ears flicked forward at the same moment Wayfarer whickered a warning and chomped impatiently at his bit. Alec's own mount, Pilgrim, tossed his own head in response. The two horses had been on edge even before they had left the city gates, which could be attributed to the lack of exercise they'd had since being cooped up in the Gard alongside their masters. At the latest glance to Jace Alec knew without having to follow his line of vision that the second party to this meeting had just appeared, for his friend tensed suddenly and the dreamy expression washed off his face. He did scrutinise the road then, his keen eyes picking out the approaching horsemen within seconds. They rode under no banners, and the party outnumbered the royal one, but Alec drew solace from the observation that they were not all mounted and the closer they drew the more obvious it were that they had grabbed anything with an edge that might pass for sharp as a weapon. The conglomeration included a handful of archers, axes, cooking knives, scythes, and if Alec was not mistaken a hoof pick. The figure that must have been Jacque Tiller came closer still, stripping away from the bulk of his guard on a horse of remarkably good breeding, doubtless stolen. He was clothed coarsely, with mismatched pieces of chain mail and armour scrambled together to afford whatever protection they could. Alec's sharp archer's eyes could deduce even from the many feet that still lay between them that the rebel leader was younger than he expected, perhaps only of an age with him. He wondered what sort of miserable life he must have lived to have accumulated so many grievances in such a relatively short time. To Alec's deepening horror he was accompanied by a child, the boy's head hardly skimming Tiller's horse's shoulder, some king of weapon gleaming faintly in the clenched young fist.

As Tiller and his reduced escort finally drew to a halt Alec turned in the saddle, daring to allow a moment to pass where his eyes were not pinned on the approaching rebels to look to Jace for instruction. His friend too was frowning at the presence of the child, the lines upon his forehead making his seem older.

"Jace..." The duo locked eyes, conveying without speech what they dared not say, years of practice reading one another coming naturally. The answering gold irises told him all he needed, that Jace did not like this. He did not want to give the carefully scripted oration that Valentine's Council (Starkweather in the main) had so kindly prepared for him and he did not want to be here in the slightest. He liked their situation even less now such a total innocent had been drawn into it. But it changed nothing; they would continue as planned whether they liked it or not.

He was Valentine's to order, even if he had his own agency and not merely his own life and future at stake Alec doubted that Jace would turn back. This was what he did, pressing forward until he found something better or put what he had suffered and regretted further behind him in the past. The merest tilt of Alec's head illustrated that he understood, one final reassurance that he would stay precisely where he was now: at Jace's side.

The hint of reluctance and dread in Jace's posture was corrected instantly, shoulder's rolling back and his usual arrogance returned, "We will match their numbers as best we can," Jace said instead crisply. "I will not traipse the exact number down there since we will need men at our backs. Alec and... Cartwright- you will attend me," His gaze rested after a brief pause at the eager young lord, the only one who still seemed determined to treat this as a pleasant afternoon excursion and was thrilled at the prospect of engaging in real combat. Jace was perfectly aware that Jonathan Cartwright's naive optimism and youth had him far too riled up, he had chosen him to stay close, where they could monitor him and keep the hottest head in check.

Blinking once, Jace again addressed the others, "Keep your eyes open and wits about you. Should things go...poorly" he selected the word with grim tact, "It is to your own discretion whether or not you wish to engage. You were asked to flank me, not fight with me, and I will not expect you to engage when the odds are against you."

"They are poorly armed and badly trained" Jon Cartwright protested, "We could-"

"Pray God we do not have to," Alec snapped, his voice stonier than he had intended, but milling here was unbearable now. He felt as impatient as Pilgrim. One way or another, he wanted this ended.

Jace nodded, then sharply turned his heels inwards and touched them to Wayfarer's side, the dappled horse lurching forward readily while Alec pressed forward alongside him; Pilgrim's head brushing Wayfarer's left flank while Cartwright took up a similar position on Jace's left. It was unsettling, finding for the first time their positions reversed. Until today Alec had outranked Jace and so normally he would have been flanking Alec, not the other way around. It was baffling their horses too, and Pilgrim kept yanking on the reins as he tried to pull ahead.

Alec was only distracted from the battle with his mount by Jace's colourful explosion of cussing. An upwards glance revealed that in the trees ringing their meeting place surrounding the rebels yet more men were rustling in the bushes. Alec added his own curse; they were thoroughly outnumbered. They were too far away and encircled by shrubbery for an accurate count of their numbers to be possible but an estimate had them at far more than Jace had. Even Cartwright had paled at the realisation, and his fingers pressed tighter into the wood of the crossbow lying across the pommel.

"No panic," Jace growled, low and firm, "At least none they can read, you heed me?" The instruction was wholly for Jon's benefit, but nonetheless Alec voiced his own comprehension and assent. He could lead by example, and so he would unquestioningly obey Jace's every utterance from here on.

As though sensing that, once they had moved within hearing and shooting range Jace stunned him with another order. "No further than here gentlemen." At his incredulous look Jace continued "I go closer alone. A gesture of goodwill he will have to replicate."

"They are commoners," Cartwright hissed, spitting the phrase with the same volume of disgust one might use in their tone when referring to leprosy, "It is not a case of their respecting honour or chivalry-"

"There is a difference between living a simple life," Jace snarled in correction from the corner of his mouth, "and having a simple mind. I will speak to Tiller man to man. And you will do as you are bid should you want to get out of here alive."

That final demand was for Alec's benefit, and though every instinct barked in protest against it he pulled Pilgrim to a halt, his acquiesce forcing Cartwright to follow suit. Alone, Jace advanced his final few feet and waited for Tiller.

A long, tense ten heartbeats later Tiller also closed the gap unaccompanied.

The two men stared at one another, like cats facing off on a barn roof.

"Master Tiller," Jace spoke first into the throbbing, tense silence. Alec and Jon were just close enough to hear the verbal exchange.

"Well met, Lord Herondale." His voice was low, his eyes wide as he came face to face with the man whose name he had used to gather this army, his hope for the future, his hero. Judging by the poorly concealed awe writ clearly across that hardship-lined and weather-beaten face, the name made flesh did not disappoint.

Alec was watching close enough to see the bob of Jace's throat, "What can I do for you, Master Tiller?" He had not had the pleasure of hearing Jace practice the prepared speech, and knew not whether Jace had ever intended to adhere to Valentine's script, but he suspected that the words his friend had just spoken so sincerely were not a part of it.

"For me, sir?" It had caught the rebel off guard, "Not much there can be done for a poor farmer like myself. Home burnt, babe buried, wife starving. For her maybe you could do much. And for the hundreds, thousands like 'er." Slowly the reverence was paling from his dusty face and the more he spoke, the more Tiller gained momentum. "There is much you could do for yourself too, m'lord."

Jace's knuckles whitened as he closed his fingers more firmly around the reins on reflex. "We are not here to speak of me. Yes, of the people of Idris. Of yourself mostly, for what it is that you intend to do next is what interests me most."

"I will do what I have to. I have done what needed to be done, to make the King listen."

"I can assure you, he is listening." Jace made an inviting gesture with his left hand, voice silky and placating.

"His council is corrupt. They are robbing the penniless. We can't live Lord, we daren't not." Tiller's voice spiked, and in spite of the many pairs of eyes on him, of the reality that one false move could damn them all, Alec wanted a blade in his hand.

"His Majesty is sympathetic to your plight. The Council less so. You are right to be angry. No one should have nothing," Jace's voice softened and he leaned forward a fraction, the pretence dropping slightly. The raw and shining remorse, the accommodating spirit all of it was chipping away at the rock solid ire of Tiller. These were not reckless words, though judging by the way Cartwright shook with apprehension they could be judged so. To the very last Jace would be horribly, commendably honest. He would not look into the man's face and lie to him, certainly not when he recognised the injustice Tiller was fighting.

"But this..." Jace gestured to the men lying in wait, their ramshackle armour and weapons, "this is a doomed cause." He said it with pity. "You will lose more lives than you change. If you want a better future for your wife and your children, give them one. You disembowelled on a makeshift gallows will not give them that. You have made your statement and now your voices will echo through history. Even the Council has begrudgingly voices that the commons are 'disgruntled.'" Watching Jace work never failed to astound Alec. The rise and fall of his voice, the very tilt of his body all steered the course of the listener. Early into his diplomatic career that potential had been noticed, here was a man whose words could rile a king into the rage that a started a war, but equally had the capicity for those soothing strokes of syllables to lull him into ending one. "But here is where you headway ends. You know it and I know it. The King knows it, Tiller. He will have your men slaughtered if he must."

"With what men?" Tiller demanded venomously, but his voice shook. "The closest he has to an army are still days away."

Jace had once told Alec that the real art of being an ambassador, of being a courtier of any sort was never giving barefaced lies. The most frequently made and fatal mistake was filling a sovereign's ear with what lies you conjured up because you thought that was what he wanted to hear. The best lies were built on truth, and the best diplomacy was built therefore on warped truths. Emissions and exaggerations, if carefully employed, would sway a man.

"One well trained man is worth five amateurs. One good weapon worth ten poor ones. Sheer manpower does not win wars Tiller, believe me. Strategy brings victory, coupled with discipline and obedience. How many of these men do you command? And of those, how many simply follow your word because it suits them for the present? What do you suppose will happen should they get inside those gates? How many will continue to make for the council once they find empty taverns and shops await them? I will wager your motely band of followers will fall apart the second they cross the city walls. They will drink and rob and scatter themselves amongst brothels and broken into townhouses. How many of them have ever _been_ inside a city Tiller? The novelty of the experience will quench any thirst they have for justice, as will stolen beer. It will be so easy for the city guard to pick up drunk, lost farmers. What started so promisingly will end in embarrassment and executions. So many executions."

He was _winning._ Alec could not tear his eyes from Jace's back, from the glowering features of Tiller that he could see over his shoulder. The farmer spat over his horse's shoulder and pierced Jace with another penetrating stare, "Why then should I be loyal to the King that would have me put down like a rabid dog?" Only from Alec's perspective could he see the muscles that jumped in the back of Jace's neck as he whipped back a wince before it could spread across his face and show how close to the truth Tiller had struck. The pale eyes stood out starkly against the dirt of Tiller's face, now they narrowed at Jace. With the next statement his voice dipped even deeper, even quieter and revealed the acute mind under the grimy, matted mop of dark hair which had taken the hopeless endeavour this far. "Sounds to me as though yer a man who has seen war. You talk of how they're won. If I can't follow a king who would hang me then I could follow one who feels my pain. I could follow-"

"Tiller you do have my sympathies," Jace cut the sentiment in half abruptly, his assurance somehow still heartfelt. "As do you have King Valentine's. Your issue is with his advisors, as you have said yourself, and it is those advisors who restrict His Majesty. Come now, the very fact he has sent me highlights just how keenly His Majesty feels your suffering. And he does strive to make amends. You wanted to be heard and he has heard you. I have heard you this day too, and I will see to it that many others hear all you say. But now go in peace. Leave this city intact, show your King that you respect his city, show the people of Alicante that you will not see them robbed, degraded. Do not have one more family suffer as you have and your actions will speak volumes above your words. Show peace so that your children-"He shot a meaningful glance at the small boy who lingered feet away – "may know peace."

Tiller's grey eyes and Jace's gold slid back together, seared against each other. The two wills grated, loud enough that Alec wondered that he could not hear the screech and scrape.

"I will intercede on your behalf should you do so." Sensing the dregs of hesitant doubt that still had a bearing on Tiller's conviction, Jace proceeded with his earnest, resolute promise, "I am Jonathan Herondale, by the grace of God Duke of Broceland. I speak for the King in this, and to the Council I can also speak for you. If you agree to leave Alicante, to cease this now, then I swear on my honour I will see to it you are allowed to leave in peace."

Not that Alec spent a great deal of time at the cards, his father's proclivities sufficing to deter him from dice or gambling of any sort, but he certainly would not have wanted to meet Tiller at the table. His features were coolly blank as he contemplated the vows and compromise laid before him, the vague dulling of fanatic optimism in his eyes were the only indicator that closely harboured hopes Jace might join their cause-or better still lead it- were being dashed. Alec wondered if the farmer recognised the man who had fired on his townspeople to protect a Morgenstern princess. He surely could not have, else he would have said so. He was, like Jace, an honest man in his words. Despite his remarkable poker face he had not the verbal skill nor the tact to try and lead a man where he wanted him to go. His passion and undeniable drive had seen other men flock to him, but he was not a natural leader. Tiller was not even much of a soldier, what military strength they had lay with Highsmith and had they not moved with the Devil's own speed and caught the royal court in such a vulnerable position they would not have made it this far.

"You speak of the will of the people Lord Herondale... you say you would protect the people of Alicante. Our quarrel is not with them, I tell you. Though I admit that I can't with heart and soul swear myself loyal to a king who would idly watch his subjects starve." His voice tightened with anger toward the end of the declaration, and he ground his jaw while Jace attempted to protest- "And I tell you that His Majesty has made for the Clave building as we speak, and he will speak with the men in the city who represent our counties. He is not idle-"

"Nor are the people of the city-" Tiller told him, the syllables fluctuating between grim purpose and faint triumph- "And they did not, as you lords seem to think, shrink from us. They haven't fallen atremble into the arms of the nobles to keep them safe. They flung their gates wide."

Jace stared for a long moment of numb silence, before colour drained altogether out of his already tired and pale features. "They are in the city," he breathed, horrified. Then he cleared his throat, a terrible, rasping sound as though he struggled to catch his breath. Alec merely tensed behind his friend, struggling to absorb fully what he was being told. Jace spoke again, in the same low voice and with composure, but it was the glacial calm that Alec recognised his friend adopting in moments of crisis. "As of now, you mean to tell me that you have men within the walls."

"They will be marching to the Gard, cheered on by their countrymen." Their adversary seemed to be gathering momentum again with each new word, perhaps an attempt to strengthen his own confidence. "They will speak with their king-"

"Their King is not at the Gard." Jace snapped stiffly, while Alec found his own body growing evermore rigid in the saddle. "Only his family."

His family. And those that serve them. My family.

Alec's sister was in the Gard. The cold veneer of shock that had coated Alec shattered with the realisation. Suddenly his heart began to quicken, beating more forcefully and frantically, blood starting to pound as a war drum in his ears. Isabelle was in danger, and he was miles away. Useless. Leaving her helpless when she needed him most.

"Fair enough." Those two words fell hotly into the gentle morning summer breeze, the hatred causing Alec to flinch. "His family are as crooked as he is" Tiller spat further, no longer attempting to hide his disgust. "They are no innocents. The Crown Prince is a monster who kills and tortures for sport. His sister can be no better, riches showered on her that she does not deserve. They will get what is coming to them, and those of you who stand in our way will too!" As he ranted on, all self-control tossed aside, Alec on impulse snatched up the reins into his hand, setting Pilgrim clattering his teeth at the bit and churning the grass and soil under his hooves. The only thing that stopped Alec from yanking the horse's head around and galloping back to the city was the fact that Jace had not moved an inch in front of him. Rationality was struggling to batter the walls of panic threatening to close in on his mind, but what fear had been gnawed away was sufficient enough for him to accept that he was close enough to be of some use to his friend, his brother. He had sworn he would stand beside him and he would- But Tiller was still ranting, eyes now fever bright with hysteria and voice rising to a cry. He moved his arm to make some kind of accentuating gesture-

There was a near silent whistling of a small black missile passing in the corner of his vision. Then Alec heard the thud.

Once again bewildered he whipped his head around to find a stony pale, panicked Cartwright visibly shaking in his saddle, fingers stile atremble over the crossbow trigger.

"Shit," Jace barked out and Alec's gaze flew back this friend who was trying to push his horse forward again, to reach Tiller- "Keep-" he started in vain, an order he never got to finish.

What was he to say- 'keep your wits?' 'Keep still?' Alec's unspoken question was soon answered as Tiller pitched forward over his horse's shoulder, body deflating like a punctured sack of flour and suddenly falling to the ground. A crossbow bolt now sprouted from his neck.

Jace had been trying to say 'keep him on his horse'.

Wayfarer pranced back from the fallen soldier, his rider's eyes were now once more on the narrow roadway between him and the hoard of angry peasants who had just seen their leader murdered, and were grappling for their weapons. The cacophony failed to drown out the thin, cat-like wail of the child who scurried forward to the motionless body on the dusty did not get very far, snatched backwards by one of Tiller's other companions who was hollering the atrocity loud enough to banish any doubts the other assembled men may have as to what had just occurred. "They shot him! The bastards shot him!"

Alec had not the time to wring Cartwright's neck as he wanted to, diverted by the snap of branches and swoosh of leaves as the shrubbery surrounding the fallen rebel came alive with archers and other armed rebels. Jace swore again, whipping a glance other his shoulder to where their own party were either beginning to slowly retreat or shuffle hesitantly while their enemy mobilised. If his throat were not aching with dread and his stomach rolling at their peril, Alec might also have contributed some colourful language.

Judging by the howls for vengeance and the utter fury flashing off the now unsheathed blades, the small army at Tiller's back was set to charge and none of the royal representatives had much longer to live.

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A piercing scream shot through the tower, and Clary's feet froze on the edge of a step. The blue hem of her gown swished back and forth over the current stone stair, a sail caught in the small wind stirred by her stormed ascent. The Princess halted for a breath, before continuing her climb with tenfold speed as the morning peace was audibly disturbed by a commotion above. She did not keep a house of rowdy ladies, they were- she supposed the kindest word might be a _sedate_ lot. Her companions tended to enjoy a day of quiet prayer or music; dancing was rare and silly games rarer still, even were they a merry court. Given the court climate, she knew that this was no tomfoolery she heard. The hammer of running feet, what sounded like a door banging on its hinges and the unmistakeable grate of course, raised voices which were distinctly masculine all arrested her as she reached the doors to her main presence chamber.

They were flung open and the usual guard or herald was nowhere in sight. Her harsh breaths grazed her throat, and the possibility of awaiting Izzy and Aline's return with help was discarded instantly at another shriek from within. Clary rushed onward, fingertips skidding across the wooden grooves of the regal doors depicting the wisdom and fortitude of Queen Esther as she attempted to steady herself.

She could not believe what was waiting for her. With her father's absence at the palace she had not been at all disconcerted by the empty halls. Now she realised that with the bulk of manpower either in attendance on the King or upon the Gard walls there was no one left on the interior. In their absence not only had her rooms been left vulnerable, but they had been invaded.

And now a rebel host was waiting for her.

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 _ **A/N:** **Focus on the positives Jace. You are a much better speech maker than the one Melania Trump would appear to hire. Meanwhile Clary's room service was not what she ordered.**_

 _ **I am planning to stay put on this dull. safe little isle in the immediate future, so hopefully will get caught up in no further uprisings and can update soon. Thank you so much for bearing with me, you guys are awesome! Each time I get a new review, part of me thinks: oh god this is the one. The one who hates it and will shit on it. And it never is! Which means so much to me! So I can't thank you enough :)**_


	18. Actions and Words

_Actions and Words_

 ** _A/N: Hello again! Not much I think I need to preface this chapter with if I'm being honest. For those who wanted a Clace reunion, I am more than happy to oblige- alongside the admission that things are getting progressively steamier between those two, as the final section will reveal..._**

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Eyes wide as the pewter plates she now ate her meals on, Clary surveyed the wreckage before her. From where she stood (or rather leaned fearfully) by the doorframe she could clearly see that an undeniably drunk, strange man clad in coarse wool and stained brown leather was tottering around her inner chambers, taking large, swooping swigs from a bejewelled goblet.

The noises of distress had been coming from a horrified Helen Blackthorn, whom another equally simply dressed man had a firm hold of. His dirty, bruised hands stood out garishly against the finely styled spring green satin of the Duke of Lyn's eldest daughter as she tried to push the vagrant away from her. The only saving grace was that Helen was doing a rather admirable job of keeping him at arms-length, aided by his being as equally intoxicated as his companion. What caught Clary's attention next was the obvious fruits of his plunder; the blue satin and fur trimmed cape he had adorned. _Her_ cape.

At the jolting indignation of that observation, Clary forced her eyes to scan the rest of the rooms around her. The chairs were upturned, table pushed ungraciously to the wall and the vase of summer water lilies upon it had been smashed upon the floor- what had once been their sustenance now forming a shallow, watery grave. Chests had been opened thoughtlessly and now the handful of men flitting about her rooms like greedy hornets had even laid hands on her candlesticks. One of them dared haul a costly tapestry off the wall and started to flounder and flail under it as it came down. She swallowed the lump of panicked disgust in her throat as she realised the plunder had not ceased there and her very bedchamber was now open to scrutiny. Another two tipsily giddy intruders, younger than the others -one of them could not have been more than fourteen- were wrestling her bedsheets between them in a vile tug of war. Maia meanwhile was bolting about the rooms and trying to salvage what she could, her arms already clinging to Clary's engraved box of jewels. Some of her youngest maids were weeping where they cowered in the corners.

Clary forced her cramped, anxious hands to loosen on the door handle and stepped into the room, not that anyone had noticed. She advanced inwards, counting five or six intruders in all. She made it no further before her limbs were seized in a wretched trembling, and her heart sped unforgivably. These were the rabble of enraged faces that had haunted her nightmares, it was their sneering hatred that had almost killed her before and this time there would be no Jace to save her.

Where in hell was Jonathan? The men at arms who were charged with the protection of her life? Every scraping laugh, every clink of metalwork grabbed and rip of rich cloth seemed magnified in the closeted space. The sixth suspected vagrant appeared from the doorway to her inner rooms, sweeping the door open with an unholy bang.

Dear God, nothing was sacred. Her beautiful burgundy bed-curtains with their lovely golden brocade fringing had been torn down and were now piled inconsiderately in the arms of a man who could well be a sheep farmer. In addition to that the bared mattress was blatantly sullied with muddy footprints, while her very undergarments were strewn carelessly across the floor. Rebecca appeared then too, having adopted much the same stance as Maia; wobbling after the intruders and grabbing what she could before it was grabbed. In spite of their efforts a small black velvet purse in which Clary had kept a few coins her father had given her was held upward in a ruddy triumphant fist, the gold and silver within jingling cheerfully and traitorously.

A chorus of coarse cheers sounded at the discovery and then astonishingly it was sweet, gentle Rebecca who started to curse in protest, "You villain! Unhand that you devilish-" She made to lunge for it only for her wrist to be caught and her arm twisted. Becky yelped, and her assailant laughed in her face. "Now now, my pretty one! Let me show you that better sport can be had from that dirty mouth..." He grinned and his company goaded him own with more bawdy comments and raucous, ribald laughter. Once again, too late, Rebecca tried to jerk backwards out of reach, but the stale, drunken mouth had already swooped down to hers. By some mercy she did lurch a retreat a moment later, grey faced and aghast. She stared at her still smiling attacker, with her eyes slowly falling to the fingers still locked around her forearm, before she loosed another gasp and crashed to the floor in a dead faint. By no means was her friend a woman of an especially delicate disposition, so it was the sight of her quailing which finally blasted bolts of heated feeling back through Clary's shaking body.

"What, in the name of God and all the saints do you suppose you are _doing_?" Initially she did not realise that the piping outrage had come from her own lips. The man chortling over Rebecca's slumped form gradually swivelled his attention to her. The distraction was seized by Maia to dart over to her fallen friend's side, Clary told herself that she had at least accomplished something as she herself now became the subject of torment.

Mercifully the hollering and looting of the others continued and it was only one of the men who advanced on her, as opposed to all six. These odds at least she could tackle.

The approaching scoundrel sneered at her horridly, wine stained lips parting to reveal yellowed teeth. "Something the matter sweeting?"

While her heart felt as though it had risen to her throat and was now battering against her vocal chords, somehow Clary managed to shoot out a retort, "The matter would be your presence in my chambers!" Belatedly she considered if the use of that single possessive pronoun "my" might prove detrimental.

It certainly seemed to awaken a gruesome, threatening delight in her foe's face. "Princess!" He cried with crass celebration, loud enough to halt the intrusive revels of his companions, "At last, the Morgenstern welcome we deserve."

Now he was close enough for her to smell his alcohol sullied breath, close enough to see the broken veins and ruddy colours to his cheeks. His voice dropped to a seedy murmur, and Clary swore that every square inch of her was erupting to gooseflesh, "By God do you look like your mother."

She dared not unlatch her eyes from the man before her, but noted that all other sounds of merrymaking had silenced and that no one in the room was not watching this exchange. She could hear the shallow, frightened breaths of her ladies and maids, alongside the anticipatory huffs of the rebels.

"What are you doing here?" Clary demanded again, letting her anger level her tone instead of raising it. She had first-hand experience of the effectiveness of her mother's cold, quiet wrath, so she tried mimicking it now.

He leaned closer still and for the second time that day Clary could feel the slow burn of bile creeping up her throat at the pungent reek of stale sweat that now mixed with the sour tang of wine. "What does it look like I'm doing here? I've come for some damn justice" he spat the final words and spittle showered her face. Between genuine nausea and fear Clary dearly wanted to be left alone in the privy, but she told herself that she would only achieve dry retching and that she had more pressing matters to attend to. If there was one thing she had learnt since leaving the convent in Broceland forest it was that pretence was the bread and butter of any courtier. Master false confidence and you could accomplish just about anything here. Expert falseness brought fortunes in her new world.

So she made her eyes flit around the chamber with an air of unimpressed cynicism, "And you thought to find it amongst my undergarments?" She punctuated the scathing enquiry with a sole raised brow, while Maia audibly had to choke back laughter as she helped a now conscious Rebeca back to her feet and several paces away from her assaulter. The momentary relief Clary felt sizzled out as the man before her reddened further, now from real anger. "We are a force to be reckoned with! The bringers of justice! And with the duke at our head-"

"The duke?" Helen interrupted with harsh anxiety, abandoning her forceful disentanglement attempts. Naturally, in her mind there was only one duke; her father.

"The Duke of Broceland," the rebel crowed, something close to smile splitting his glowering expression.

Clary ignored that, his haughtiness just as intolerable as his rifling through her most personal belongings, "The bringers of justice?" she scoffed, holding herself still and her back straight. Though the half inch the raised chin added to her height did not bring her even close to her opponent's level or make her intimidating, the movement did make her a tad braver. "So you wage war on women and a wardrobe? How grateful the common folk of Idris must be to know you will champion their rights."

There came a yelp of steel and a vague whistling in the air and the next Clary knew there was nipping sensation at her throat. Confusion mingling with surprise she attempted to look down, only to feel the cold bite of metal in earnest and the answering heat of her own blood starting to slide down her neck. Instinctively she jerked her head upwards and back from the dagger pressed to her throat, her stunned eyes consequently skidding back to her assailant. Mayhap he had not intended to really harm her for he had eased up the pressure on the knife, however still kept it against her vulnerable flesh. At the sight of her new danger one of the girls- she thought Julie- gave a little scream. Even drawing a sword in the Princess's presence was death, the act of drawing her blood was beyond unthinkable.

Astonishingly, the first person to vocally protest was another of the rebels. "Christ Will!" he cried into the gasping quiet- "She's near a child! And a mousy little thing, you dolt." At any other time that would have been insulting, but Clary was too afraid in that moment to care. Her apparent maturity and assessed appearance was the very last of her objections here.

"The mouse squeaks too much" Will snarled, temper unrelenting. "I'll keep her quiet until the duke gets here." Her blood was pounding in her ears louder than ever by now, as though it was aware some had been spilled. The slow ebb of it from her present wound sluggishly trailed down her stiff neck and began to seep into the lace _file_ which peeped above the neckline of her bodice. Clary's stomach kept clenching at every little noise, so she heard with perfect clarity Helen's asking the question she herself wanted answered, "What do you mean by that?"

The more rational of the intruders present, the one who had reprimanded Will, replied. "We came through the gates at dawn and by now Tiller and the duke ought to have come to an agreement. They will come through into the city together in the second wave and take control of Alicante."

He sounded as though he believed it. _Second wave..._ Good God. There were more to come.

The muscles in Clary's neck continued to ache with the effort of holding herself still, and she did not even attempt to face the speaker as she responded, "Clearly you do not know the duke very well. His purpose today is to act as the King's representative and I can assure you that it is our interests he works for today, not yours. The last thing he will do is take your part. He is one of _us_."

"Shut up," Will snarled, face twisting with growing irascibility. It reminded Clary of the tempestuous tantrums Jonathan used to have as a child, all stamping feet and shrieking. A sullen child being told something he did not want to hear. The sight sent some courage trickling back into her frozen form.

Once she had been afraid. But this was not Oldcastle, and she was not the weak, scared little girl she had been three months ago.

Not so long ago a boy had pushed a legend into her hands and told her she would be comparable to some of the greatest queens in the world, the women she had cherished as her heroines from the history books. He had become a man today, risking his life for her and her family. Well, she had started to grow up too. Now Clarissa Morgenstern relished the sting of battered steel and stared down the man holding it. This was her house, her rooms. No one could stride in here and make her feel small.

The knife dug into her once again, and Clary could feel her quickened pulse at the edges of the blade, as if the power of her own heart rate could push the peril away. "Go ahead" she snapped out, feeling the challenge as ferociously as she said it. "By all means, cut my throat. See how susceptible your duke is to your justice then. See how eager he will be to fight for you. He would not merely kill you for that, he would _destroy_ you." The maniac zeal in her assailant's expression dimmed and Clary welcomed the success with a wide smile. This was not the dainty, sweet smile she painted on when speaking to her father or the court, oh no, this was a wide, savage grin that likely made her look half demented herself. "You are mighty heroes and divine retribution incarnate, so please. Seize an empty castle and murder a sixteen year old girl, after you have pilfered the price of a new book and her petticoats. How joyously your children will remember you then." She let her voice drop again, but the surrounding room was completely devoid of silence, so she knew that even the youngsters grappling with the tapestry over their faces in the corner could hear her. "For that is all you will give them to remember. Your failures. It will be a race between my father and the Duke of Broceland to kill you. Have you not tasted enough of His Majesty's vengeance?"

She knew by this ruffian's accent he had to be from Broceland, that and the reverence with which he spoke of the Herondale duchy. Even should he not be from Oldcastle itself, he had to be from nearby. Clary would not waste her possibly numbered breaths on empty blows, and recent experience had shown her just how well words could be used as weapons. The sound of Jace's admission he would not stay with her still smarted. By now she knew she had struck a tender spot from the loosening grip on the dagger hilt. The two of them kept staring at one another wordlessly, until Clary's fearful impatience flickered once more, "Unhand me you braggart!"

Flinching away from her rough demand, Will stepped backward and shoved his blood-speckled knife back into his belt. The removal of the dagger's press sent another course of hot blood from her nicked skin and Clary, normally so squeamish, felt her right hand drift upwards on instinct. When she peeled her fingers away from the cut they were stained dark red. Despite the grisly nature of the colour Clary found herself recalling her summers at the convent, when she had spent her free evenings picking blackberries for the nuns.

The shaking starting to return, thus Clary grasped at what remained of her composure and frowned at the assembled, wary men once more. Raising her bloodied fingers she spoke slowly, loudly and frostily in her reprimand; "No man is permitted to lay a hand on a princess of the blood without her express permission. And even then, it is frowned upon for anyone save my husband to lay a finger on me. Yet..." she moved her fingers slightly in theatrical disbelief, "I am bleeding." She paused for effect, finding in a perverse way that she was enjoying the sight of these brawny men starting to quail before her. They were like most men, puffed up on a sense of righteousness and too much to drink, but this group had broken in here expecting no resistance from a crowd of hysterical women and thought her belongings being easy pickings. They were here because they wanted to avoid the conflict and the main action. They had made a catastrophic mistake in injuring her, however slightly. It was not social justice any longer, it was treason of the highest order. They could believe her when she told them that even should they triumph, vengeance would be a mild word for what Jace should want should he learn they had harmed her- as it were true. "Now. I would say that you have less than an hour before His Majesty returns here with a host of highly trained soldiers, and I do not expect him to be pleased that his palace has been invaded. Then there is an army loyal to the King less than a day away from the capital who shall gladly rout you all from wherever it is you think you can hide in this city."

She took a step forward and to her delight the closest men stumbled back from her. She must look eerie, her already pale skin bleached altogether with the shock and strain of the encounter and a thin rivulet of blood slowly leaking down the arch of her neck and over the ridge of the collar bone. Still Clary kept speaking with her now mastered light, cheery threats, "That considered, were I you, I would want to make it out of here as quickly as possible. I would hasten from this city while I still could and far away from it in the hope that you outrun my father's wrath. Unless you all have a burning desire to be hung, drawn and quartered, that is. I imagine having one's entrails pulled out while you are still alive is marginally worse than almost having one's throat slit. It certainly takes longer. And of course, with a traitor's death that is arguably not the worst, nor the last thing to be suffered." The graphic, barbaric truth was the final shove needed to propel them toward the exit, little coins still falling free of stolen garments and crammed pockets, thudding noisily onto the now carpet-less floorboards and rolling back toward their mistress. "Oh-" Clary said drily, as if the final blow had just occurred to her- "And I should not imagine that I would want to be caught bearing anything that might connect me to the Princess's person or indeed to her rooms, once the hunt for the man who wounded me begins." It might have been funny had she not been dreadfully lightheaded, the manner in which they flung all their loot from themselves now as if it had just caught fire or the plague.

This entire campaign of theirs struck her suddenly as tragically farcical, once she beheld this unfortunate band of moral clowns speeding back onto the streets were they would soon be picked off like a scattered heard of deer there were, pursued by lions.

She almost pitied them their inevitable deaths.

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

This new flash flood of alarm in the pit of Alec's stomach did not manifest itself immediately into action. He was frozen in shock and dread, watching the grotesque tableau of their approaching demise unfold. Above, the heron flag was slapped repeatedly by the rising wind and the noise seemed to mock him. Perhaps the Church was correct and he were a monstrous sinner, why else would God curse him with the fate of dying under the banner that had rallied their enemies in the first place?

It seemed that his new bout of panic attacks was not yet finished however.

"Alec I need you to stay here. For the love of God- for whatever love you bear for me as your brother, I need you to not move. Not a single inch, unless you wish to guarantee I die." The words were brisk, each syllable sharp with purpose.

Before Alec's lips dared even start to shape a protest or question- whichever might come first- Jace had dug his heels into Wayfarer's sides.

At least one lesson had been learnt in the past few minutes, the move Alec did dare make was to fling his weight to his stirrups as he stood upright in the saddle and then made a forward lunge for the bridle of Cartwright's mount. His fingers curled urgently around the leather straps, and though he could not look in any way graceful or heroic he succeeded in stalling an attempt to charge after Jace. God help them Cartwright was no longer on the edge; he had toppled off it long ago and was now being buffeted with waves and battered by boulders at the cliff's bottom. Having averted at least one more disaster, Alec allowed his head to snap back in Jace's direction.

His friend was cantering, alone, toward the assembled rebels.

Fearlessness personified, he looked as though he belonged in a tapestry. A one man cavalry charge, his voice booming out not a challenge but a command, a rallying cry. He seemed more than the valiant knight, breaking into a shaft of sunlight that turned his armour to a blistering silver and illuminated the gold curls which shone brighter than any crown. Whether stunned or bemused, it mattered not, for his opponents stayed their hands.

Not one arrow was launched, not a single soldier charged. Where there had once been bays for blood now was silence, and Alec knew that like him every man was holding his breath. They were waiting, waiting for Jace's next move, his next word. He drew up his warhorse just before the first of the enemy lines, still bellowing that sole command: "Hold!"

Remarkably, miraculously, they obeyed.

They were enemies no longer, Alec realised, shaking his head with dizzied disbelief. His friend was riding up and down the rebel frontline, still calling out orders and a promise. He was their leader now. Riding down that road without so much as a drawn sword he had put his fate in their hands and now they would put theirs in his.

The spell was finally broken by the scramble of King's men behind them and their disjointed, confused rumbling. "We need fall back, make for the Gard." Cartwright spluttered out hoarsely.

"Or engage. Attack while they're distracted" an older, scarred city watchmen suggested in a growl, alerting Alec to the fact that much of their own following had drawn level with him. "You heard the duke" he snapped out, swiping his eyes over the uncertain expressions, his low urgent voice making him sound older than he felt.

"But- he is with them now." Cartwright pointed out, face flushed and more beads of sweat popping up on his forehead.

"If he were with them" Alec began, in a low and intense voice which made him sound much older than he was, "Then do you imagine we would still be alive? They would already have attacked and killed us." Thus the tussle for dominance ended as quickly as it had begun, Jon's head dropping in a submissive concession.

"We hold" Alec repeated, loud enough that all the assembled royalists awaiting orders might hear. His voice sounded a weak imitation of Jace's unyielding, daring authority, but for his friend's sake, for all their sakes, he persisted: "We hold."

 _-0000000000000000-_

* * *

Ultimately there was a thin line between the pragmatism of self-preservation and cowardice, no one could argue with that. Jonathan Morgenstern chose to believe that his actions veered more on the side of the former than the latter. After all, upon hearing that some of the useless, pox-ridden commoners that lived and worked in the Gard had opted to admit some of the rampaging peasant force of peasants into the fortress without so much as a protest, he failed to see his... strategic retreat as anything other than the wisest course of action. Engaging them would not have been admirable, it would have been suicide.

As it were, he was far from alone in his preference to continue living rather than dying stupidly, and how could the Crown Prince be expected to make a stand when none of his own men were not inclined to charge into battle? Besides, this had not been battle. A battle took place in open air, on a wide field and with grass/mud underfoot. There honour of a sort could exist as at least one's enemy was attacking openly. There was no honour in ambushing a man in his own home, therefore Jonathan was firmly of the opinion that he had no reason to reciprocate with any kind of honourable death. Surely dying was all that could be achieved. The Gard's corridors were built to render an attack futile; if your enemy should be already within, then there was no sense in charging in after them when suddenly you were the one at a disadvantage.

Instead, Jonathan had opted to retreat to the small soldiers' barracks within the Gard's walls with the group of men who had clustered around him. He did not particularly care if that order had been met by a look of disbelieving disappointment from the man who had brought the word that they had been breached. His primary concern had been getting himself out of the open and as many men as could be found prepared to make a stand where they would be strongest. It was not as though he had been lounging in luxury while the world went to hell, for the barracks had been one of the vilest places he had ever been in his life. It had stank of unwashed bodies, unemptied chamber pots and bad wine, not to mention the damn place had been barely lit. Jonathan was beginning to fear that he would have his eyes stuck in a squint for the rest of his days by the time he had emerged into the harsh afternoon light, having been told that His Majesty had returned from putting the fear of God into the county representatives in the Clave, none too pleased with their failure to restore order in the shires before things had even come this far. Then he had been hoping to harvest that fear and get his own forces to Alicante quicker. Their lack of ability to conjure up the army he needed so hastily had put their sovereign in a foul mood as it were, only for him to soon after discover his apparently impregnable castle had hosted a rebel party in his absence.

If Valentine had been angry before, he had now crossed the line into an unrestrained rage. The sound of his roared reprimands could be heard echoing down the hallways even levels below his rooms. Hence Jonathan's incessant mental repetition of his defensive arguments.

Approaching the King's quarters his son found himself throwing most of his weight forward into his toes, as though he were a child once more attempting to tiptoe past the doors time there could be no flight, not when Valentine had demanded his presence and implicit in that order lay the need for an explanation.

"The Crown Prince" the herald preceding Jonathan mumbled warily before making his own hasty escape. Fastening his clasped hands behind his back and fixing an innocently blank expression upon his face Jonathan marched into the room with solemn purpose, a good soldier reporting for duty.

"Your Majesty" the formality slid from his mouth easily yet softly, there was no need to stoke the already blazing temper by trumpeting his presence. Not even the man paid to do so had done it, for God's sake. Jonathan held himself in a low bow for as long as he could, only daring to glance up questioningly when no snapped order to rise was forthcoming. The bunched muscles in his back where beginning to whine in discomfort and he eventually had to move to alleviate some of the pressure.

Valentine was striding back and forth, either oblivious to or ignoring his eldest child as he continued to verbally flog the captain of the guard to within an inch of his life. His younger child was sat before the empty fire grate, her green eyes sharp with the accusation that Valentine had yet to voice. She looked even paler than usual and was capitalising on their father's preoccupation to express the unveiled hatred she levelled at him now, which had him shift an involuntary step backward. It may have been the second time in recent months he had left her to die, but to feel _threatened_ by the little wench, that was utterly ridiculous. The girl was just that- a girl- and one whose head would not even touch his shoulder and limbs were scrawny as twigs at that. He had absolutely nothing to fear from her.

 _Oh but you do_ that acidic little voice in his head hissed once again. Every day these little doubts and fear corroded a little more of his confidence, his peace of mind. It had been months since he had first recognised Clary for the threat she was to his inheritance, yet despite all his schemes and one gruelling ride to and fro France he was no more secure than he had been. Yes, he had weeded out the prospect of a union with France, but that was merely a stay of execution. He could not dispose of every suitor in Europe and sooner or later Clary would have a powerful husband at her side and an army to buffer her own claim to Idris' throne if need be.

In fact, for all Jonathan had done and risked, his position was _worse_ than it had been when she had first arrived at court in the spring. Now the realm had a Herondale duke once again and yet another alternative heir to the throne. Valentine could not acknowledge the legitimacy of his title without in effect acknowledging his claim.

With effort, Jonathan looked away from his sister's unspoken promise of vengeance and drew the frantic cogs of his working mind to a halt. Valentine had not acknowledged anyone; for all he knew Herondale had got the sword in the gut he deserved today at long last. Jace was not anything yet. Nor for that matter was Clary. There was a long, unpredictable road between the scratched signature on a betrothal contract and the murmured vows at the wedding alter. Anything could happen, and surely his little sister had used up her supply of good luck for quite some time, having escaped both Oldcastle and now this unscathed in any way that counted.

As Valentine barked a permanent dismissal at the solider before him, who scuttled away having all but soiled his breeches in his distress, caught in a haze of relief that he could walk away and horror that he was now unemployed. Jonathan felt the edge of a smirk teasing the corners of his lips at the observation and the anticipation that one day men who had seen multiple wars would cower before him just like that.

However, now of all times, he had the rare phenomenon of his father's undivided attention. "I would ask where in hell you have been Jonathan, but sadly I know the answer to that question." The great doors behind him shuddered shut while Valentine closed the gap between himself and his only son, "You seem to have grown a tad too fond of making yourself scarce of late."

Jonathan swallowed back whatever pathetic remark he had been about to make as his eyes flickered away from Valentine's at the derisive attack. He realised that the three of them were now unattended, more alone than they had ever been together. The closest they had come before were family meals in private with the King, during which fine food was consumed and nothing of any consequence was discussed. Now there were not even any hovering servants with jugs of wine whose presence might dissuade the King from unleashing the extent of his sickened disdain for his son, only Clary- who watched this all stiff-backed in her chair, likely with hungry delight rather than distaste.

Worse, now Valentine was not inclined to bother with his royal pronouns anymore Jonathan knew that this was personal. Father to son. The first of these moments, or rather the first times that Jonathan had noted the divesting of a royal persona between them, had been on the occasions of any kind of misdemeanour or shortcoming Valentine had become aware of. Then it had been clear that Jonathan was no longer the Crown Prince of Idris, but a boy who had behaved inappropriately. There was no formality for discipline. While Jonathan was no longer a child that could be pulled over the King's knee and punished with the rod or belt, there were still a great many, much worse things that Valentine could do to him.

"I did naught that was wrong, sire." He hazarded a sideways look into his father's eyes with the opening of his vindication only to be viciously interrupted-"Preciously Jonathan: you did _nothing!"_ The vehemence with which Valentine hurled his disgusted accusation at his son chilled his insides and sent his gaze hurtling back to the floor. "While your sister and her women were left defenceless. The enemy were in the heart of our home and you did nothing to stop them. You made no effort to devise a strategy- oh no- instead you cowered and waited until I came back to clean up your mess. I left you here to protect Clarissa, to guard the very centre of our city, our seat of power: and you failed on every count. You beg for the opportunity to prove yourself and for more power- yet when I leave you with the most basic of tasks, to do the very least I would expect from a servant of mine, you disappoint." Each lashing of Valentine's tongue was as potently painful as a whip's, yet the King was not close to done- "Do you know what finally chased the bulk of those scoundrels out our doors? Your sister. She seems to have been the only one with a scrap of courage. Then my men had to round up the remainder of the drunken rabble while they raided the kitchens and stumbled over their own feet. "

Jonathan threw a glance toward Clary, seeing her properly and taking stock of the way her left hand was gripping the armrest of the chair and her right pressing a blood trimmed kerchief to the side of her throat. She had changed her gown from that morning too, now she was clad in a green which only made her skin seem greyer and the trusty yellow kirtle and hood which normally suited her so well. The arch of the gold over her head made her look like she was crowned with a halo, as the saints painted and hung in the chapels were. How appropriate. Saint Clary.

The continuing torrent of rebukes snapped Jonathan's awareness back to Valentine, "Meanwhile you- you maliciously blockheaded, craven fool- choose to conduct yourself in a way that makes me wonder if you are you my son at all?"

He may as well have kicked Jonathan in the stomach, for the jibe knocked the breath out of his lungs and made the edges of everything in his vision blur momentarily as though someone had doused his eyes in water. Then he blinked and it all cleared, though the hollow feeling within and the sting in his veins remained.

The shrill little intake of breath to his left sent another glance in his sister's direction before he could stop it. He had been expecting utter jubilation and triumph, or even dark satisfaction since she could not openly celebrate the opportune repercussions that statement might have for her, what he did find in his sister's face was even more harmful. She was looking up at him with damp eyed pity, their eyes meeting, for once not to taunt or challenge one another, but instead for a brief second of understanding unity.

"Your Majesty-"Clary began quietly but determinedly, her voice causing Valentine to break off his next, undoubtedly more destructive round of ranting.

Whatever dreadful chastisement he was to inflict upon his son had yet to be revealed, and the miracle of the Morgenstern sibling's new accord was eclipsed by the announced arrival of the Duke of Broceland. Whatever hope, whatever concord he had begun to establish was shattered instantaneously, long before it could bloom.

No, he could not be grateful to her, he could not be thankful for anything in that moment. The doors opened at Valentine's enthusiastic gesture to admit a dusty, grim faced Jace Herondale.

Clary had been making to rise with her protest, now she fell back to her seat and Jonathan could imagine how her silly little heart started to patter now she saw her love alive and well. His own heart had sunk to find his nemesis falling to a breathless bow, still half stunned and with a minor scratch on the right cheek but otherwise incredibly untouched. How in the name of God these two did it was beyond him. It was as though they were invincible. Some saint or devil truly smiled on them.

The only grace of the situation was that the King's berating of his son seemed utterly forgotten, yet again not only was Jace Herondale the apple of Valentine's eye; he was the only one in his eyes. A moment ago Jonathan would have thought nothing more painful than his father's words of disownment, now he realised that watching the glittering praise in Valentine's black eyes as he beheld Jace now was much more vexing.

He had always felt growing up that Valentine wished that his own blood could have a character more like that of the traitor's spawn, a situation that had baffled Jonathan as much as it disturbed him. The Herondale brat had been gifted endless books and toys, then with the same access to scholars and tutors as any true-blooded prince. His childhood had been a mirror image of Jonathan's; down to being given the same birthday presents. Frustrating as it had been for a lesser born boy to be given the same trappings as the future king, to witness how Valentine softened when he spoke to the other child was close to unbearable. That was not the only reason they had not been friends, Jace was hatefully adept at all he turned his hand to; languages, sports, even mastering several musical instruments and receiving training for the high, clear singing voice that was sweet where Jonathan's sole attempt at a ballad had been sour. That might have been overlooked, but any possibility of harmony betwixt the duo in any aspect of their childish lives was destroyed by Jace's own stubbornness. The two would never like one another, that was obvious, but despite Valentine's threats, his beatings and their governess's cajoling as they got older it grew apparent that the boys could not tolerate one another. At least golden boy's many talents made him easy pickings for the bigger group of boys, but where others knew to lie down and take whatever goading or violence the young prince saw fit to inflict, Jace had always fought back. Clearly that insufferable attitude had not paled any with the arrival of adulthood.

"I understand I owe you a great deal of thanks, Jonathan." The Crown Prince had begun to suspect that Valentine only persisted with sticking that name to Herondale to irk his own son. Nothing Valentine had to give could be solely his, not even his Christian name. "As does this city."

"They breached the city." Jace pointed out, the exact kind of useless observation that Jonathan would expect from him.

"They are being chased from Alicante as we speak. A few burning townhouses and looted shops will be left in their wake but the damage was not all it might have been." Valentine corrected, backing to a nearby seat and settling himself there. He propped his chin up on his hand and to Jonathan's horror chuckled softly to himself. "Their leader is dead and with him their desire for conflict I should imagine. You did spectacularly today Jonathan. Spectacularly." The King repeated himself, packing yet more approval into the phrase. The contrast with the flaying Jonathan had received made his chest feel as though there was a great weight laying upon it all of a sudden, squashing his breaths and sending a disconcerting prickling to the backs of his eyes. "You salvaged the situation by your show of tremendous courage. Had you not prevented that army from charging the city would be in greater uproar. And a force far more formidable than some petty jewel thieves might have entered the Gard. Men who would not have been so easily hounded out." He looked to Clary as he reached the end of his appraisal, but unsurprisingly his daughter's eyes were pasted to Jace Herondale and had been during the entirety of her father's speech.

A speech which to Jonathan's ears sounded too full of "might haves" to warrant the praise that saturated it. Jace must have heard the littering conditionals too, for he was fidgeting slightly before His Majesty, something that Valentine would rage at anyone else for and Jace should have known better than to do.

Valentine was ignoring that however, turning now to Jonathan once more "You see, my son? It is as I told you, one man can be worth ten if he be the right man." The tart dryness was not lost upon Jace, who glanced at the prince curiously but only briefly as Valentine continued, "And this one is certainly worth ten. Which is why he will henceforth have a permenant seat on my council, as is his by right anyway as the Duke of Broceland."

Sweet Jesus Christ. Jonathan stared at his father, unabashedly appalled. There was no way Valentine intended to make good on that promise. Broken vows were like broken egg shells to his father, Jonathan knew that having both experienced and inherited his incorrigible dishonesty. Therefore when Valentine had offered the duchy to Herondale his son had not batted an eye, why should he when he would have done the same: said whatever it was he had to so the chips may fall in his favour. The king had said the only thing he could to inspire Jace to face Tiller in the first place. He was not supposed to have meant it.

But Valentine was still smiling, as though he were about to end a long race victoriously and Jace was bowing again and murmuring with relished relief a humble, "As Your Majesty wills it." More than a small part of Jonathan found himself inspecting that small patch of exposed skin between the back of his collar and the bottom of his hair as his enemy lowered before him. He wished he were the axeman surveying that final bump of his spine to mark his target.

Clary meanwhile was all but vibrating from her desperation to speak to or touch the new duke. The King still prattled on, but from the corner of his eye he watched her, watching him. Clary was staring with poorly stifled hunger and disbelief; a starving woman before a feast. Her hands had fallen to her lap now and so her own war wound was on full display. Jace's eyes widened as they fell upon the clotted cut and he blurted out, "You are hurt!"

It seemed the events of the day had shaken him more than had been immediately apparent, for that would be the second blunder he had made in a very short space of time. For a man who had just become a duke, he seemed to have forgotten the court etiquette he had once thrived upon. And Valentine was remarkably forgiving of it, pretending instead that no one at all were speaking asides from him as he barked some orders at a beckoned squire. The shift in attention left Jonathan in a position almost as awkward as he had been while his father had torn him to shreds moments ago. He was unable to escape, as no one left the King's presence without a dismissal. Instead he was unwillingly frozen in place and subjected to the exchange taking place right in his ear. He determinedly turned his cheek as Clary's eyes started to glaze over in a way that warned of tears just held at bay. "It is nothing. Naught compared to what you inflicted," with the reprimand her voice wobbled, joyous relief at the present clashing with past wrongs.

"I can but offer my plea for forgiveness. And beg for a chance to demonstrate my remorse."

"Granted," she replied equally breathlessly, barely a moment later. Apparently only to her brother could a grudge be held.

Jonathan opened his mouth, either to protest at the sickening adoration the two were staring upon each other with (to clamour the unspoken conversation beside him with the harsh truth of how ridiculous they seemed) or even just to relieve his stomach of the grisly meal he had to choke down in that barracks. None of which came to pass, since Valentine interrupted them with a soft suggestion that Clary retire for the day and pursue some rest. Then he gazed pointedly at the two young men still before him, side by side but with a distinct gap between their shoulders. Whatever line of discussion was to he travelled down next was not for a lady's hearing.

Yet he turned away from them once again to issue a summons for the council to meet, which gave the exiting Clary the chance to touch Jace on the upper arm, squeezing as she brushed past. She even strained upwards so she might move her lips in a brief stream of words Jonathan could not hear right by her beau's ear.

It was then only a matter of a few short minutes during which Jace expanded on how he had halted the rebel charge and through appeal to their leaders had offered his own services as their ambassador to the King (at which point Jonathan could not resist a snicker- for it implied his foe had come so far and yet nowhere at all) and promised to personally pursue their demands at court. A bloodless, peaceful victory. The only condition being that they disband immediately and depart from Alicante, with his word that they would not be pursued. Peace for peace. It would seem Jace Herondale had gained the trust of a great many people today, if Valentine's uncharacteristically unbroken silence as he spoke was any indication of his standing here. Had Jonathan been King he might have had the stupid bastard flogged for his insolence in straying from the path of orders the Council had laid down for him, and for having the audacity to presume he could speak for both the whole of Idris and its King. But their own army was not as strong in terms of men and arms as they had hoped- were the most recent, alarming reports to be believed- and still a good two day's ride away at best. So Valentine was content to acknowledge a disaster averted. All that had to be addressed now was limiting the damage caused by those still inside the city walls.

Just as the lords of the Council were filing into the chamber meekly, Jonathan felt a feathery touch upon his shoulder and turned to find that he and his old ally the cardinal were the only two lingering at the doorway. Jonathan had been reluctant to enter as a result of his father's steering Jace into the great chamber with a hand pressed proprietarily to his upper back, while the Cardinal had tarried out his desire to speak to the Prince. At this point in the day which had arisen as one of the worst in Jonathan's miserable life, he could not even be bothered to vent his irritation at the interrogations Enoch had botched. He had anticipated Pangborn's uselessness, but when Valentine had told Jonathan he was to have Herondale assessed for any seditious involvements the Prince had entrusted the duty happily to the cardinal with every expectation of success.

That was not what the clergyman wished to speak of however. "My Lord, I feel duty bound to comment on how you were outdone-"

Cheek twitching with the falling of yet another verbal slap, Jonathan bit off the end of the sentence before the cardinal could complete it; "You know of all the courtiers my father tolerates, I used to find you the one least prone to inanely echoing all he said. I daresay there is not much you can have to add, Your Eminence. The King has already emphasised that I was gloriously outshone by that bland slip of a girl today."

"Oh Highness," the cardinal began, the corners of his bottom lip slumping with faux sympathy while he embellished his silkily scathing remark, "That is the very least of your concerns." He blinked up at Jonathan bluntly and gently shook his head, dislodging his already crooked crimson skull cap somewhat- "You are not the one who seemed a prince today."

He swept away to re-join His Majesty then, swiping a hand over Jonathan's shoulder as he passed, either to console or caution further the Prince knew not, but the touch combined with his final comment sent blazes of painful anger through him once more and had him grinding at his teeth in frustration.

True, it did not bode well for Enoch that Jace was so firmly in Valentine's favour, since he had most certainly made an enemy of the new duke and this would be something the Prince could chew on in private. It might strengthen his alliance with the Church for now, but this court was ever changing- and no one stayed in Valentine's good graces forever. What bothered him most along with that cutting comment was still the image of his sister's blushing cheeks and dainty smile as she leaned in to whisper whatever secret she had to share with Herondale. Today had made her bold, in the way only dancing so close to death and triumphing could.

Separately they were keeping him awake at night, and now when he pressed his eyes shut he had a new freshly revolting, worrying sight of the pair to dwell upon, alongside their easy elegance on the dancefloor. Together...

Jonathan wanted to grasp his sister's shoulders hard enough to leave a bruise and then shake her with sufficient vigour to rattle some sense into her. Anything to make her see that while she may be looking upon Jace through some hazy heartsickness, his sight was far from hampered by such rose tinted silliness. Oh no, Jace Herondale had a clear cut goal, or at least he soon would have. He would not be content with being third in line for very long. No, he would soon be reaching out that hand in a lover's caress for second. He only had to deflower Jonathan's foppish chit of a sister to back Valentine into a corner. If she were no longer a virgin Clary would no longer be of any worth at all in the marriage market. No prince or lord would want her, an impure woman, for a bride. Jonathan wondered if he ought to just sit back and let it happen, since it was entirely possible that once she'd whored herself out the King may banish Clary back to a convent and remove Jace's head. It was in that hope Jonathan had allowed their dalliance to continue, even employing some rough persuasion for have the Blackthorn and Penhallow girls encourage it. But now...if Valentine would elevate Jace to a dukedom then where might he stop? If Clary let Herondale in her bed now would their father insist he put a ring on her finger and stay there?

The first of many questions Jonathan had to answer for himself was whether or not he was prepared to risk it.

 _-0000000000000_ -

* * *

The evening took its time in coming. Despite the many things that had occurred during the morning, they already felt like they had taken place years ago rather than hours. Once her ruffled but rapidly recovering ladies had been reassembled in her chambers Clary had them set about repairing the damage as best she could and instilling as much of a sense of normalcy as possible. The hours of the later part of the day dragged nonetheless.

It was not over yet, whatever her servants were determined to tell her. Somewhere in the city the remainder of the offensive rebel forces (such as they were) lingered and the still assembled army beyond had yet to fully disintegrate. Even from behind the restored safety of the Gard's mighty walls Clary could see the dancing red lights of burning townhouses and she had heard that priceless heirlooms of many of Idris' great families were currently scattered in the river.

But she believed Jace when he said that they would disband. That he was taking his role as their chosen champion seriously was obvious, but it would still take days for the dust of the whole disturbance to settle. Once it had, Clary had the feeling that the world revealed would not be the same as it had been, which need not be a bad thing.

Much as it almost physically pained her, she told herself that after the weeks of turmoil she had spent without Jace she could survive another few hours. It still took an immense amount of self-control to stop herself staring out the window every five minutes as the sun simmered from white to red and sluggishly slipped toward the horizon. Thankfully, the upheaval supplied Clary with the perfect excuse to disappear early to her mended quarters.

After bidding herself lie still for what might be deemed a reasonable time, she nudged Isabelle beside her, who was starting to doze off. Her cold, bare toes nipping at her friend's calf soon remedied that.

"What?" Izzy mumbled, trying to thrash her off huffily.

"Get up and dressed," Clary hissed.

"What for?" A pause and then- "Clary I swear to God if you are about to say Mass-"

The Princess fumbled about in the violet darkness of the dawdling summer evening through her still curtain-less bedposts for a candle and flint. She paused only to thump her friend's shoulder as she tried to turn over and huddle back under the blankets, "Isabelle!"

The other girl whined like a scolded hound- "But the danger has passed! You can thank the Virgin Mary in the morning!"

Clary was grateful for the darkness she had not yet lifted and her friend's turned back, for a dreadful heat crept to her cheeks at mention of the Virgin. She did not think that the Holy Mother would approve of the exploits she had in mind. Fortunately, that meant Isabelle certainly would. "I want to see Jace." She wondered if she would have to repeat herself just as a small flame finally fizzled to life, hissing alongside her whisper.

"Now?"

"He will be waiting." The sheets rustled and Izzy sprang upright, no trace of fatigue dulling the candidly questioning look she gave her young mistress in the spreading light. "We need to talk" Clary stated her defence, swinging her legs over the end of the bed and grappling about for her slippers, looking everywhere but her friend whose rapidly churning mind Clary could almost hear. "People do not seek out members of the opposite sex at this hour to talk, Clary. Not even a convent upbringing could excuse that ignorance."

Clary did not reply but set about wresting free the first gown that came to hand and shaking it out. Izzy's hands joined hers on the dark velvet, once her unwavering determination became clear, "Very well then, but why do I need to come?"

"To assist me in my crossing the castle to his rooms, since you seem to have no trouble creeping around with Simon and maintaining your covert relationship. I will also require a lookout once we arrive. There is no one else I trust to do so."

Isabelle scoffed, pretty nose wrinkling. "Combat has changed you," she then concluded chirpily. Another pause ensued before she added more gravely, "I am sorry I was not there to help you fight your battle, by the way."

"You said. Several times." Clary obediently held out her arms while her lady laced her into the dress with expert swiftness.

"I mean it. I should have been with you when you needed me."

"You were doing what I bid you. Anyway, I managed." She waved away the proffered headdress, deeming it unnecessary and opting to leave her hair loose. She at least had the decency to look indecent while she behaved as such.

"Still, you really are so small Clary. You seem so breakable. I have to keep reminding myself how strong you really are." The flat, plain praise sent another flush to Clary's cheeks. Getting a good word out of Isabelle was so rare that she felt strangely honoured to be held in such esteem.

The good feeling did not last though, and sneaking across the castle entailed several palpitations, a stubbed toe that had to be suffered in utter silence and one hastily donned pretence of two serving girls trying to locate the kitchen. By the time she did arrive at the necessary doors Clary felt more than a little faint.

"Clean towels for the duke" Isabelle declared sunnily to the grim faced guard at the door. Clary wondered why he was stationed at the entrance to Jace's apartments. To keep anyone from breaking in? To prevent the new duke from walking out? Isabelle exhibited the one prop to their hurriedly concocted performance: a basket of linen, while Clary kept her head down and chin pressed against the base of her throat, where it felt as though her heart was pounding.

The only thing the girls had to hand that even resembled a towel in Clary's bedchamber were the clouts used for her monthly bleeds (of all things!) which she prayed might suffice. The man at the door heaved a sigh and did not spare them a second glance, having clearly never laid eyes on such items since he waved them through. Izzy halted on the threshold, giggling to herself mildly and twirling a lock of raven hair around a finger as she peeked up at the guard from under her lengthy, sooty lashes. Distraction underway Clary scurried onward, knowing her time was limited.

She paused only a second, steeling herself and patting down her skirts nervously. It had been so long- and he had not agreed to meet her exactly, as she had not given him the chance to reply...

Then the bedchamber door fell open and there he was, letting the book to hand flop shut with a muted thud as she found herself crossing the room to him. His eyes shone with disbelieving admiration- "How-?"

She pressed a finger to his lips to hush him, marvelling that they were as warm and soft as she remembered. "You are still awake."

He smiled under her fingertips and she dropped them so he might reply, "You told me to be." She recalled a similar conversation by a water gate, not long ago. It still stunned her; that to his mind there need be no explanation. What she asked he would give, no questions asked. Without warning he fell to both his knees before her, tossing the book aside with an abandon she felt she ought to scold him for- but later- for now he was encasing her fingers in his. "Forgive me."

"There is naught-"

He bowed his head, like a man about to knighted or a penitent pilgrim before her. "Yes, yes there is. I was a coward Clary. I walked away from you without a trace of a fight."

"You were no coward today," she highlighted quietly.

"I was then. And I broke your heart, craven fool that I was." He lifted his eyes to her at last, brighter than any candle or star, "But I will never forswear you again Clarissa Morgenstern. I will stay by your side, come what may, for as long as you will allow it."

A remarkable new warmth began uncoiling in her stomach and swelling in her chest. Clary had thought she loved him before, now she was sure of it. The strength of that emotion might have scared her, likely should have, but she truly felt she was stood at the birth of a new beginning. All could change in a second and she saw now that each moment ought to be seized. "Why?" She murmured now, needing to hear it from his lips.

"I am yours, heart and soul, and ever will be."

Kissing the hand she clasped first, she drew him upwards until he stood over her once more. They stood still, holding the other's hands and locking gazes. There was not enough time to say all they wanted to. In faith, Clary could not be sure she had the capacity to verbalise what she needed him to know, all she felt. Sensing how limited this moment was, Jace attempted to be the voice of reason, "It is very late. I have said all I need to for now, surely you had better-"

That was enough for Clary, who promptly leaned forward and sealed his protestations shut with a blistering kiss, trepidation and restraint splintering apart. Automatically Jace's arms slipped around her, pulling her closer as he deepened the kiss.

This time there was only so long the slide of her lips and the sweep of tongues would suffice, and tonight things heated up more swiftly than before. Mayhap the stress of the past few days had taken its toll-or indeed the realisation that she was completely alone with Jace, _Jace_ for the first time in weeks had at long last sunk in. Regardless of what it was that emboldened her, Clary found herself spreading her hands on his firm chest and giving him an encouraging shove backwards.

Jace stumbled somewhat and broke off the kiss, his left hand rising to her cheek as he peered down at her curiously. He opened his mouth, to question or complain Clary could not be sure, for she cut him off nonetheless with another hush and another shove in the right direction. Mayhap she could show what she could not say.

Mutely Jace allowed her to steer him backwards towards the bed. Once there, he half sat and half collapsed back on the mattress as their lips met once again, Clary twining her arms around his neck and pulling herself into his lap on an impulse.

Even through their desperate kisses Clary was aware of how dangerous this position was, she heard the poorly stifled moan he emitted when she shifted her weight and could feel the growing desire between them. He moved underneath her, adjusting their new position and pulling them both down the bed until that his back was against the pillows, leaving her with knees planted on either side of his legs and his face perfectly level with her chest. Jace glanced up at her face just long enough to flash a wicked grin before his hands were back on her in earnest.

This was different from any of their trysts thus far, for this time there was absolutely no reason for interruption. They were alone together behind closed doors. Subsequently their kisses grew wilder and soon he was seeking some other occupation, detaching his lips from hers and using one hand to brush her long hair over one shoulder, baring her injured neck for his kisses while his spare arm remained looped protectively around her waist. The touch of his fingers and then his lips against her skin there was delicious, and soon he moved to the unmarked side of her throat to nip at her too; swift sharp little bites that sent her head spinning faster still. Though never hard enough to leave a mark, each graze of his teeth had Clary shuddering under his ministrations.

Her eager response must have urged him on, before she knew it Jace's fingers were slipping to the square-cut neckline of her gown and gently teasing the bare skin there. Clary felt her whole figure hiccup with her hitched breath, curling her body in around his in a silent plea. One he heard; after raising his face to hers long enough to gain her permission Jace carefully slid his hands under her bodice. This time there could be no stifling the desperate little squeal she made as his hands shifted upwards to her breasts. "Jace" she uttered his name with a sound trapped somewhere between a gasp and a moan, her cheeks now a steaming red and her fingers gripping his hair in a manner that must have been at least borderline painful, yet Jace uttered no complaint as he brushed around and over her breasts, eliciting moan after sweet moan from Clary with each darting touch.

The next thing she knew his hands were gone, just as Clary jolted upright in surprised complaint his fingers were back at the neckline of her dress, pulling her bodice down so that the skin it concealed was pressed upwards, fabric somewhere ripping in protest. Neither of them acknowledged it with as much as a breath, as Clary was now on the verge of falling out of her dress.

Jace took the opportunity and lowered his head to kiss the now exposed skin. Clary forced herself to suck in another breath which scraped roughly down her throat in the hopes of restoring clarity to her dizzy head, only to have to harshly suppress the thrilled gasp that had risen at the sensation of Jace's mouth on her more intimate flesh. She ought to feel embarrassed or vulnerable at her growing exposure and most unladylike position. With Jace however, she felt anything but shame. She doubted any coherent feeling other than want was likely to register anytime soon. Therefore the situation was only intensified by her whimpered plea for more.

Realising the acute injustice of only her body receiving any attention, Clary dropped her right hand from Jace's hair and trailed it down to his own chest, easing her own fingers beneath the simple undershirt he wore, allowing herself to explore the hot, hard skin and firm muscle. Then her left hand wandered down to join the right and she began to scale his body in earnest, feeling the smooth skin slide under her palms, dipping downwards to where the rough scar that had almost claimed his life sliced along the bottom of his ribcage towards his right hip. Now it was Jace's turn to moan as she pulled the shirt off his shoulders entirely and pressed her bare flesh to his.

It seemed as though with her life so full of uncertainty Jace was just what she needed; solid, warm and constant. Clary endeavoured to act upon her daring before it drained away entirely and let her hands dip a little lower, to the waistband of his breeches. She may have went lower again, but Jace- who had previously only let his hands smooth over the material of her skirts- had allowed the development spur him on too, stealing his hands under her hem. Then there was only the whisper of palms past petticoats onto her legs, then up over her knees until he was tracing patterns on her bare thighs. His hands were calloused from years of sword wielding and horse riding but they were tender when they touched her, and Clary could not ignore the genuine affection mingling with her desire.

She leaned down and placed a perfectly loving, chaste kiss on his bare chest, where she could feel the steady pound of his heartbeat thudding against her puckered lips.

"Clary" he uttered her name in an attempt to rein her in, but instead of soothing her lust his hoarse rasp spurred her on. Still he wasn't were she needed him most, and now that the lower half of her dress had been bunched out of the way she could feel for herself how aroused he was. All rational thoughts were quickly dissolving with the boiling heat of her desire and she did not even murmur a protest when he withdrew his hands to her waist and flipped them, laying her on her back upon the bed. She stiffened slightly upon making impact with the mattress, which was harder than the one she was accustomed to and sparser with regard to blankets, but any thought on discomfort was banished as Jace kissed her ferociously, his mouth now feverish on hers as they searched for some relief. Her hands twisted in his fair curls once again and she now savoured the press of his body on hers.

Clary finally let her eyes flutter shut and lose herself to the clash of lips and tongues and sweet caresses, until their breathing grew even heavier and hands scrabbled against one other with rising desperation.

"We should not- We must-"

"But-"

"This...we cannot..."

"I-I know."

"We need to…"

Then he did draw back, until she had a clear view of his flushed face and the gold eyes now dusky with desire. "Stop. I.. have… to stop. While I still can." He stuttered out past his heaving chest. Clary groaned in mutual frustration, reluctant to loosen her grip on him even slightly. Her body was so heavy with longing for him and for what was likely the thousandth time she yearned to be an ordinary sixteen year old girl who was free to want the boy who wanted her.

With a flash of ire she tugged him down to her once again, tightening her thighs around his slim hips. He kissed her back, more than willingly but it was not long before their lust sparked up once more, until it was just as searing hot as before and they were back on the precipice of their self-control.

"Clary!" Jace choked out, rearing back, "That is enough. You know I dare not."

Clary could feel broiling tears of frustration bead in the corners of her eyes which she hurriedly blinked away as she glanced up at Jace, forcing herself to sit up and face him properly, carefully drawing her hands up his back to curl defiantly at the nape of his neck."I know. I have to be untouched on my wedding night. Yet I still want-"

"I know." Jace echoed, his voice surprisingly tender given the heat of the moment, "You may not have a betrothed now but your father plots for one still." His gaze darkened then, bitterly thoughtful, "You are not mine to take."

"I do not feel untouched."

Some of his old wry mirth flickered back, "In this position, I think it would be hard for anyone to."

Clary spared a moment to consider herself, sitting as she did with her legs spread around Jace's waist where she could still feel his arousal pressed against her. With the torn bodice and barely covered breasts she must indeed look thoroughly ravished. She had to concede he had a point. She may have laughed but their sobering conversation was doing nothing to ease the pressure in her stomach or her growing need for him, _all_ of him.

Defiance rising, Clary decided to rail against fate some more, falling backwards and yanking Jace against her once again, so fiercely that they both moaned wantonly at the sudden contact. "Then leave me with my virtue" she pleaded between pants and moans as his lips returned to her neck and his hands to her body, "But do something- anything- please- _Jace_."

Jace obediently and promptly gave up any half-hearted attempts to struggle free. He shoved her skirts none too gently up and out of the way and she almost screamed her triumph as he finally, finally moved towards pleasing her with a surge of his hips against hers. Her hands loosened from his hair and fell down his back, her fingernails scraping at the exposed flesh, causing Jace to tremble and press his head against her shoulder to muffle a groan. He moved against her again and Clary closed her eyes, determined to lose herself utterly to the glorious slide of their bodies together.

The new experience, however, was destined to be short lived. Long before she could truly appreciate any of it they were interrupted by the rapid clatter of knuckles on the door.

With some difficulty Jace stilled himself and exhaled, his breath a teasing warmth on Clary's already too hot skin. He lifted his neck slowly from her shoulder and smiled at her ruefully, "It would appear our time is up." His words were only accentuated by another rap, this one more impatient. In response, Jace compliantly rolled off her and Clary pushed herself upright once more with a sigh, rubbing her hands across her reddened face in an attempt to pull her composure back together.

"Coming!" she called out before Isabelle could knock again, wincing inwardly at how unsteady her voice sounded. She then forced herself to swing her legs off the bed and commanded the unsteady limbs to hold her as she tried to right her askew clothing. Upon encountering the unsightly rip down the back of her bodice she gave up that task entirely and decide to huddle in the cloak she rescued from the floor. She would have to rely on it to hide the damage.

She glanced back at Jace on the bed, where he had propped himself up on his elbows and was trying to use the scattered pillow in his lap to disguise the evidence of how unsatisfied their interrupted rendezvous would leave him. She tread softly back to the bed and placed a sweet, innocent kiss on his lips. He smiled up at her again, adding another fleeting kiss on her cheek and lifting a hand to smooth some of her now messy curls back from her face. "We still have much to discuss" he acknowledged with the half-smile she had missed so badly, "Goodnight Clary," He murmured fondly in conclusion as Isabelle flung upon the door and strode in.

"I no longer care what I see as long as I get a certain princess back in the correct bedchamber in the next ten minutes!" she announced shrilly, her hands raised up to her face in attempt to screen her oh-so delicate innocence from whatever torrid atrocity may await her. "I have martyred myself enough for her. I needs must take my leave of that fellow now or the next I know he will have designs on me."

Fighting an eye roll Clary obediently surrendered, backing away and seizing her friend's hand down from her eyes with her own free hand, the other clutching the folds of her cloak shut on her dishevelled state. "Well now, I will not inflict yet another doting suitor on you." Clary wondered how much of Isabelle's performance had been forced and what it had cost her to bat her eyes at a man after what had almost happened with Jonathan... The Princess mentally committed herself to coming up with some special way to thank her friend, pulling up the hood of her cloak to disguise the distinctive hair colour and shooting Jace one parting regretful smile.

Having taken enough risks for one day the two girls hastened out into the darkened corridors, Clary's feet surprisingly heavy as she began the reluctant journey back to her bigger, more comfortable and infinitely lonelier bed.

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 _ **A/N:** **If what you just read over the past two chapters seemed similar to the peasants revolt, that is because that's what it was.**_

 _ **It was so satisfying to let Clary save herself for once, dealing with the room service she didn't order :) and Jace finally starting to rise in the world and pissing Jonathan off astronomically, as only he can :) That's my boy. Anyone want to guess where Valentine is going with this?**_

 _ **Finally thank you so so so much for those reviews :') They actually made me giddy AND tear up a little, and I pride myself on being dead inside... Hope you enjoyed the chapter and keep on reading.**_


	19. On my Word of Dishonour

_**A/N: Wow there are now just over 100 followers on this story! :O I have become that shocked emoticon! That is 100 more followers than I expected, honestly! So I have decided to repay you with this... which is dreadful.**_

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 _On my Word of Dishonour_

 ** _Princewater Palace, west of Alicante, Late September 1536_**

Staring at herself in the looking glass, Clary marvelled that her face did not betray the many years she felt she had aged in the weeks since she had last sat in these rooms. If she was not mistaken much of the childish plumpness had been stripped off her; she knew she had lost some weight and consequently her cheekbones and chin seemed much more defined. Her eyes no longer flickered away from her own reflection out of despair at her own plainness or worry that she would be accused of vanity, she looked herself dead in more solemn eyes now. It was laughable, that she had once crept around these rooms so timidly, resenting and fearing her own women. To think she now strode ahead of them without a second of hesitancy, she spoke and moved among this court without thinking at all.

Fundamentally the girl who stared back was the same, she had not drastically changed even in in appearance: for she was, optimistically, half an inch taller and her chest was at last starting to fill out. Still she could not claim to be beautiful, for freckles still marred her flesh no matter how many various ointments she rubbed on them and her hair still frizzed up upon contact with a brush in spite of the dozens of different soaps she washed it in. But these things were merely irksome her where they had once truly been a source of botheration. Clary had much bigger things to worry about and had seen enough of the world to know that a small troupe of snobbish, aristocratic girls were not worth being afraid of.

"The pearls?" Rebecca enquired behind her, to which Clary nodded. Once they were in place she brushed her forefinger against the garnet locket which hung between her collarbones; trying to draw a final piece of confidence from the bright colour before turning away from the mirror. Then she promptly rolled her shoulders back and pinned in the matching earrings by herself as she marched out of her bedchamber.

"His Highness agreed to meet with you, Princess" Aline chimed as she passed by, "He awaits you in his rooms."

"Good" Clary declared humourlessly, making straight for the doors, "You and Maia can join us."

Once the two girls had fallen into position behind her Clary began the journey to Jonathan's quarters. Ideally, she would have wanted Izzy in attendance, as she had the most court experience and would the most adept at reading between the lines of whatever lies or half-truths Jonathan was about to feed her, not to mention simply reading Jonathan in general. But given recent events she deemed it folly to dangle Isabelle before the Crown Prince like a tasty morsel, instead staying her present course of keeping as much space between him and her friend as was possible.

The court was at long last inching its way out of its shell now that the last of the rebels within the city had been put down or chased out, and there were more occasions now on which the women and men came together. Be it dancing or feasting, Clary never let her eyes stray too far from her brother. So far he had behaved impeccably. That may have more to do with their father than Clary, however.

Having gained insight into how His Majesty treated his heir behind closed doors Clary had fostered the beginnings of a sympathy for her brother. While that made his actions a touch more understandable, it did not even scratch the beginnings of excusing them and overall only served to accentuate how dangerous her brother could be.

She had at first suspected that the King may be the only person on this earth Jonathan feared, but the more Clary had dwelt on it the more she felt she had been initially mistaken. Her brother was most frightened of Jace, or mayhap it would be more accurate to say he were frightened by how Valentine treated him and what he might become. She was still struggling to adjust to seeing Jace at all during the court events, dressed as he was in fine clothes and sipping wine beside his new equal, Andrew Blackthorn. She at least was thrilled to see him rise, watching all of that through Jonathan's lens of bitterness surely had him in a perpetually foul temper.

When she finally came to the Prince's quarters and was ushered inside she was startled to note it was the first time she had ever done so. She could count on one hand the amount of times she and her sibling had willingly and personally sought one another out and on each of them Jonathan had come to her. What she had expected to find in Jonathan's personal rooms she could not have said, but admitted only to herself she had been anticipating something to the effect of a torture chamber: dingy, slimy walls, the echoing, eerie yelp of water dripping onto stone and bits of animal carcasses dangling from the ceilings- that sort of thing. Some kind of holding pen for whatever perversions he could not pursue in the public eye. On the contrary, the Crown Prince's apartments seemed not so very unlike her own, only where hers were full of blues, pinks and creams it was dressed in more masculine colours, reds, browns, silver, and black- a great deal of black. The rather tastefully chosen paintings did not portray gory murders or Dante's layers of hell as she might have expected and she even glimpsed a small oil likeness of a silver haired woman over the mantelpiece. Their grandmother Queen Seraphina, she recognised eventually; who had died before she was born.

The only objection she could make of her surroundings was that they were something of a mess. Cushions were squashed into chairs and not plumped up again, a hat tossed onto the first surface by the door- which so happened to a gilded candlestick- and the table top was scattered with abandoned letters and papers. Not far from them the fallen soldier of a quill lay injured, drying out and withering away in the open air, the bleeding ink blots were also hardening from where they had splashed onto a gap of bare wood between the sheets. It would seem the reluctance to tidy after one's self ran in the family, Clary thought to herself, though she had the benefit of an infinitely patient Rebecca to tidy up after her. The tiny smile she had allowed herself had to be swept away as she approached her brother, lounging in a seat by the window with one long leg folded over the other and a foot resting upon the opposite knee.

He did not stand on ceremony as he did not stand at all, opting to crack a vicious grin up at Clary instead. "Sister, you never cease to intrigue me." She had left her ladies loitering behind her, far enough to not appear obnoxiously intrusive but close enough to remain in hearing distance. Either way, Clary knew she would require witnesses to prevent her doing anything silly and unhelpful, like strangling him. For now his ability to breathe and speak could be beneficial for her.

"I should hate to bore you," she replied mordantly, to which he narrowed his own gaze and reassembled himself on the seat until he were leaning forward, "Never that, Clary" he chimed with mocking reassurance. Clary scoffed a little, but just as she began to frame another sharp retort he pressed on, "Listen, much as I adore sparring with you little sister, I do have better things to do."

"Of course. Such as terrorising my women, or do you only pursue that line of amusement after dark?"

"Must we really do this jig again Clary? If so, how many times? Your women are not especially interesting to me-"He shot a jeering glance on Aline's direction- "or any man, for that matter. And if you must have an answer, it just so happens the Council has a spot of anarchy to deal with. Since we only get one life apiece let us not waste any more time pretending interest in one another. Say your piece and go back to your psalms, or charity or... whatever it is you do with yourself here."

Her hands had drifted to her hips and she had to force them to smooth down her sides before she really did adopt the stance of a common housewife about to scold her husband. She could not let him irritate her, not now. She had too much to lose and if this plan of action failed she did not know what else she could do. "I hear there is another suitor on the horizon" she deadpanned, scrutinising the Prince with what she prayed was subtly and a blank face. Jonathan at last lost interest in the fingernails he had been pretending to clean, sweeping his eyes up to hers momentarily, "You heard correctly."

Clary sucked in a breath as best she could past the restraint that was her skin tight stomacher. She had not wanted to believe it when it had first been whispered to her by Maia three days ago, but much as she hated the news she had not doubted for a moment it were true. "The Dauphin is scarcely cold in his grave." She sighed and shrugged sarcastically, "Such is the advantage of an unofficial betrothal I suppose; no expected period of mourning, no reason for another not to be immediately pursued."

Jonathan hummed in agreement, returning to his preening, "Father is most heartened by the values of the situation. Though I daresay that even had you been officially contracted he would not have paused too long in seeking out another match. He is not a man inclined to waver. He knows he wants of you Clary and he will not dally in getting it. The ambassador arrives from Nancy this afternoon."

"I know."

He gave her another artificial smile, taunting her with a gasp, "My, my. Aren't you well informed."

Clary did not deign to respond to that, pressing on her one line of enquiry, "So it _is_ the Duke of Lorraine?"

"I cannot tell you that; all on the Council are bound to secrecy on the matter." He laughed then brashly, "Father seems to think that were you aware you would _meddle_."

"You already have told me," Clary frowned exasperatedly.

"No I did not. Though I cannot think who did drip that pleasant tidbit of knowledge in your ear, since even our favourite Herondale is still in the dark. His Majesty knows he may as well have Father Jeremiah bellow it from the pulpit as tell Jace. His tongue could hardly move quick enough to tell you."

Though her risen anger was cramming her full to the brim so much so that a headache was beginning to squeeze at her temples, Clary fought to remain focused. She needed an accurate assessment of all possible threats here, and only Jonathan would be well enough informed and easily enough goaded into telling her all of it. "What of the previous bachelors? I know the King of Scotland has since married but the Hapsburg boy-"

"Will not be ready for a wife for nigh on another decade," Her brother finished for her, still refusing to diffuse the blatant mockery in his tone. "As for dear old James, Madeline de Valois broke her father's heart in insisting that he let her marry him. She is a sickly thing and will not last her first Scottish winter. So unless the Duke is as impatient to close the deal as His Majesty then you could well find the King of Scotland back in the game soon."

"Let us be frank with one another then, for a change. I do not wish to marry the Duke of Lorraine."

Jonathan's mouth twisted into a smile in earnest, and for the first time since meeting him he seemed genuinely amused to Clary. "Dear heart, I do not care what you want." Hidden behind the flare of her yellow shirts, Clary's fingers twitched and she was almost consumed by the desire to scratch his eyes out. Seeing her barely curbed infuriation Jonathan had the audacity to dart his hand out and pinch at her cheek, tugging ardently on the entrapped flesh. "Come now! It is not the worst match! Yes- he is old enough to be your father, but there you have the comfort of the possibility that he might be impotent. Even should he find the energy to paw at you he already a widower who has his issue, so there is no pressure on you to present an heir."

Her cheek still ached from where her brother had nipped it and her stomach rolled in riot at the prospect of being wedded to a man near fifty, yet Clary made herself smile. That caught the Prince off guard entirely, just as she had hoped it would. She took several bouncing paces backwards, wrapped her fingers around the smooth back of a nearby chair and hauled it over to where Jonathan sat. Then she dropped merrily into it and clasped her hands before her, prepared to talk proper business at last. "There are many differences between the two of us brother, anyone may see that. But the real distinction? Unlike you, I make it my business to both know and care what you want."

Jonathan had stiffened somewhat, lowering his arms to the armrest and dropping his leg so that his feet crossed at the ankles instead. His brows lifted as he asked with hefty bemusement, "Which is?"

A slow, vulpine smile unfurled on Clary's fine features, "You like the notion of my being married almost less than I do."

"And what makes you say that?"

Clary swallowed and calmed herself. She had at last some insight into the workings of her brother's mind at last and she intended to use it. Was that not how her father operated? Knowing a man meant knowing his fears and desires; so then threaten one and offer the other as the situation may warrant. Now she shook her head slowly, as though she were about to reveal some terrible tragedy, before uttering with sharp melancholy: "Our people do not cheer as you ride past."

"The people do not cheer as any of us ride past," Jonathan snapped, the terseness in the phrase declaring to Clary she had begun to really get under his skin. She continued her lament as though he had not spoken, "The courtiers obey you, but they do not respect you. Perhaps the fear of you and our father silences any objections but there is no enthusiasm to carry out your bidding, no fostering of undying loyalty. None of them would choose to follow you."

"What-"

Clary refused to be stopped, "Now say I do become Duchess of Lorraine. Say that from that union a son is born. Another boy with Morgenstern blood in his veins... What if he becomes the sort of man who men will want to follow? Idrisian men, even..."

Jonathan made a show of snickering at her, "You and your wild imagination. Am I supposed to quiver at the might of this prince who does not yet exist?"

"You are supposed to see the mutual benefit in my remaining unmarried." She offered another smile while he tapped at his chin and rolled his eyes at her. Clary tilted herself forward and dropped her voice to a murmur, "Am I supposed to pretend you will require encouragement to remove my potential bridegrooms?"

He threw her a gaze sideways, "Careful now Clary. You have pushed me far enough as it is."

She shrugged again, "I hear that the late Duchess died of negligence. They say that a doctor was not called for her illness until it was too late."

"You hear too many things," her brother chided irritably. Oh, she had him eating out of her palm now, though he was too annoyed and furiously thinking to see it. "Our father has too many eyes on me as it is, sister. I do not wish to antagonise him further by interfering in the matter. Although I suppose I can investigate the Duke somewhat, if only to allay your fears that you would not be well cared for as his bride. That I can promise, on my word of dishonour. " He gave her the beginnings of a smile that was anything but merry.

"I thank you," Clary said, feeling sincerely elated. She had just dislodged a great weight off her own shoulders and was feeling more hopeful than she had in days. Ruthlessness was the one aspect of her brother she could be sure of and she gratefully trusted in it now. She was not utterly heartless, she had suspected that the King had Jonathan all but under lock and key and he had confirmed it, so she need not fear for the life of the new favourite for her hand. There were still many ways to wreck a betrothal; even should Jonathan fail to completely halt the coming one he could at least hamper it. Time was a much greater luxury than costly furs or jewels to her now and one she would not squander. So she nodded happily to her new unlikely ally now, "Shall we have some wine?" she suggested chirpily, "To celebrate our being on the same page at last?"

"Later," Jonathan growled, "I do in fact have another appointment this afternoon."

"A pity," She uttered it the way another girl in another scenario might have said 'a party'. Without even the slightest reluctance Clary bounded up and made for the door but he called after her, voice stridently curious, "Say Lorraine's suit is rejected by His Majesty, for whatever reason- what then? If you truly wish to stay unmarried, you would save us both a great deal of trouble by opting to return to that convent and taking holy orders. God knows, you pride yourself enough on being pious."

Without turning Clary smiled once more to herself, the expression no longer feeling as foreign or false on her face as it had moments ago. She continued on through the doors, Aline and Maia a solid presence at her back. Only when she were sure that she was out of earshot and that her brother was not following her did she answer him in a muttered confession under her breath, "I only said that I wished not to be wed to the Duke of Lorraine, not that I did not intend on marrying at all."

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

The weather may have taken a turn for the worse as summer began to surrender to the autumn at last, but it was still fair enough to make a walk in the palace's walled gardens enjoyable. A pastime made all the more pleasing by the frequency with which the Princess could be located amongst the shrubbery and fading roses of late, since she had developed quite a penchant for outdoor pursuits.

To the outside eye, that the new duke happened to find himself stumbling into the company of that lady almost every day appeared entirely innocent- at any rate Jace hoped that were true.

Each time he would bow, she curtsey and invite conversation by enquiring how he was adjusting to his raised status at court. Then she would offer various lines of advice or consolation and he would offer his arm. Once he had her small hand tucked in the warm groove of his bent arm and pressed securely to his doublet they would wander onwards and Clary's accompanying ladies would develop an inexplicable lethargy and find themselves incapable of keeping up.

She had once mentioned in passing that this were the tried and tested method employed to maintain a friendship with Simon, a fact Jace battled to accept in silence. He had crushed the wriggle of jealousy under his skin with the argument that surely it was of no consequence who had been at her side before when he were there now. He comforted himself with the thought that if anyone had cause for envy now it would be Simon, not he. Jace had gently scouted that terrain as best he dared, "And your musician friend does not mind the deposition in favour of me?"

Clary had laughed and shot him a conspiratorial look, "Oh I daresay not. Simon has his own distractions these days."

"Dare I enquire as to the meaning of that?"

She had scrutinised him with some disbelief, then shook her head, "Naught. It means naught."

Jace entertained the possibility of pressing her, then dismissed it. They bickered enough as it were- that saw no signs of changing anytime soon, a continuity he was shocked to find himself glad of. Besides, of all the many people on this earth that Jace found interesting, Simon the lute player was not one of them. Clary did get a tad flustered when he teased her about Simon's commitment, enough for him to garner that he had been a sometime suitor to her. That phrasing was viciously attacked, which Jace laughed off now with some ferocity of his own. "Is this a particular vice of yours Princess? Men beneath you?"

She glared, but lacked the incensed response that would have revealed a grasp of both layers of his lewd jest. She really was too pure for him. "There was nothing of the sort between Simon and I. And you are not so far beneath me anymore, _Your Grace."_ She teased him ceaselessly with the honorific these days, to the point where even before her father when she supposed to be addressing him formally she forgot to allow the words to part with the sarcasm that was their near constant companion. As she taunted him her eyes slid down the tawny doublet, new jewelled dagger, heavy golden chain and boots that were- for the first time in perhaps twenty years- perfectly polished. Not that he had donned rags before but itchy as these trimmed coats and whatnot were, they did make him seem rather handsome.

However good he had felt about himself in the present moment, Clary unwittingly razed his good humour with her next comment, "More to the point, I should think that of the two of us you have a longer line of scorned suitors." She said it lightly but was only half-jesting and did not met his eyes as she spoke. Jace should have anticipated the chiding enquiry sooner, now that they had elected to explore... whatever this was. If they were to engage in this most unconventional courtship (had he been permitted to court her) then they had to be honest with one another. This must have been troubling her for some time, and the tension of her shoulders and quickened pace indicated how deeply so as they strode in the direction of the little labyrinth recently installed in the palace grounds for the King's pleasure.

Jace swallowed and forcibly slowed their strides. He pulled them to a halt under a wilting apple blossom tree, the pink and white splotched flowers sagging as the summer retreated and the increased downpours and gales plucked them from the branches. The couple were subjected to a drizzle of damp leaves and sodden petals, one of which Clary had to use a free hand to prise off her cheek. Jace loosened his hold on her a touch, gauging the deliberately loud giggles of Aline and Helen at a safe enough distance to pursue the subject he was about to.

Much as Clary seemed to trust them, Jace could not share in her faith. Perhaps she had secrets of their own in her pocket but that did not mean the girls stopped whispering in the ears of whoever it was might bulk up their wages, or assist in the finding of an advantageous husband. Or even, should that ardent listener prove to be the Crown Prince, promise protection from whatever terrible, clandestine knowledge Clary held over them. Jace had lived in this world a little longer than she had and he knew every man and woman had their price. Even those who swore they could not be bought had something they would do anything for, or someone. Aline Penhallow for instance, was a full cousin to Sebastian Verlac and every noble family was its own faction at court. For God's sake, even Jace had his spy in the Princess's chamber: Isabelle. For that reason and many others he still weighed his words when addressing Clary. Unless they happened to be closeted in a bedchamber (which was distressingly unlikely in the immediate future) he assumed someone was listening.

Still, this had to be said now. "Clary, whatever it is you wish to know I will tell you. You know of Kaelie, believe me- that was not something that meant anything. None of my past...affairs...ever meant anything. I am rather ashamed of that, truth be told. Yes, there have been others besides Lady Whitewillow. However-"he stared her straight in the eye, heart pummelling his ribs, trying to impress every piece of sincerity he had upon those openly hopeful eyes, "there has never been one like you Clarissa Morgenstern." He laughed a little as her mouth trembled to a smile, that breath-taking flash of happiness that he would happily tred hot coals to keep there and added, "Neither of us have the words to express what we are to one another, yet I must admit- this love- all of it is as knew to me as it is you."

Clary's eyes batted downwards and Jace felt a dash of distress as she blinked hurriedly. He should have known the pain an admission of his past exploits with women would inflict. She was sickened, despairing. His hands released hers and caught at her face, fingers tucking naturally under her chin as he gently tilted her head upwards again, "I meant not to upset you sweetheart- I only thought-"

"You have not," Clary insisted, one final flutter of her lashes drying the buds of growing tears, "But that is the first time you have told me you loved me in those words."

His thumbs swept as soothingly as they could over her jawline and the panic-taut expression he wore relaxed. "I do."

The edge of her usual humour crept back and she unsheathed the blade was her tongue once again, "Sweetheart? Really."

Jace attempted to swat it aside with another laugh, as she returned to her original place at his side and returned her hand to its perch on his arm.

The endearment had just slipped out. Normally such play names sickened Jace, or were only used sneeringly to rile Isabelle, who threatened to disembowel any man who made to 'patronise her' in that manner. But it had felt right in the moment, despite the obvious torture he was about to endure for it. Instead Clary laughed alongside him and nudged him onwards. They struck up their walk just in time, for her companions turned the latest corner and came within sighting distance once more. The Duke lowered his voice anyway lest they heard, as a precaution. "You dislike it?"

"No." Clary said with quiet satisfaction, "I find I rather like it." The kept walking in a comfortable silence for a short time, before Clary broke it with a sideways glance and a more sober question; "Can we be serious for time?"

Jace flicked her a crooked smile, "If we must."

She pinched at him in reprimand. "We must. There is a new battleship on the horizon, sooner than expected."

Jace frowned, "Is that a metaphor...? If so I am hopeful it is the request to resume the night-time explorations we began some time ago." Careless of what her ladies witnessed, Clary shoved him headlong toward a hedge. Jace staggered and only righted himself in the last moment, which involved the sacrifice of his palm skidding some spiked thorn bushes. "I take that as a no," he muttered once he regained his balance, clapping a hand to his head to right the cap there and stumbling after her.

"It is code, you dolt."

"I am going to separate you from Izzy. She is a bad influence. And a code is something you agree with all parties before-hand Clary, not simply fling at them and then fling _them_ into a wall of greenery when they fail to comprehend!"

"You know that is not why I pushed you. And you agreed to be serious." She snapped, though lessened the hostility by taking hold of him again. "It means," she said in a voice scarce skimming the head of murmur, "That the Duke of Lorraine has approached my father for my hand."

He knew aught like this was coming. It did not prevent the swooping trepidation in his gut, nor the profound feeling this revelation of impending doom was akin to what a condemned man felt when he walked out of his trial with the trailing axeman's blade pointed toward him; the universal symbol of his death sentence.

"Jace," Clary's voice dredged him back to the present, where she was peering up at him with a curious blend of sympathy and impatience. He cleared his throat and played at being calm. Unleashing the full extent of his panic on Clary would not reassure her any. Whatever he felt she must too, only a hundred times more strongly. He must ease her fear as best he could, until he could contrive a way to defeat this scheme.

"That would explain that odd cross-eyed man from Nancy."

"Fear not," Clary announced crisply, "I have it under control."

Just when he thought he could not be any more alarmed, Jace's dismay amplified at the annunciation. "What the devil do you mean by that?" he demanded, more harshly than he had meant to in his disconcerted frame of mind. "Clary you cannot simply dig in your heels and refuse to marry him. Nor can you sweet talk the King out of it-"

Clary's head jerked up defiantly and she interrupted him, "No. I know that."

Jace continued anxiously, "He will not have you prying in the matter either. You know how he felt about your manipulating the French suit. He does not expect you to have a mind in the matter, much less speak it! Have you forgotten the catastrophe that was that damned stupid request you thought to make?"

They were whipping their way through this spiralling maze now, tossing up scattered leaves and strewing stray pebbles about the gravel paths underfoot. Their voices were lifting with their tempers, the now quite honestly hesitant Aline and Helen forgotten long since.

"What possessed me to tell you of that I will never know," she grumbled angrily, "Perhaps you should reconsider the value of my damned stupid pursuits Jace, since you are one!"

He sighed, the sound rather strangled and not unlike the noise usually made after one was winded. Jace opened his mouth to try and placate her but Clary was not prepared to hear it yet, "Anyway, that I did for you, folly though it was. Moreover, I do learn from my mistakes. I have no intention of being so direct this time. I may be prohibited from meddling- but Jonathan is not."

Jace momentarily had to squeeze his eyes shut and almost had to bite down on his tongue to halt the next tirade. Here he was, trying to counsel her against the extreme unwisdom in baiting Valentine and she was telling him that her solution was to enlist Jonathan, who was unspeakably worse, in her latest idiocy. Jace knew idiocy when he saw it, it being his natural habitat. That did not excuse Clary's ignorant foolhardiness here. He attempted to tell her so, but she did even pretend to listen. "Yes, Jonathan is a dangerous enemy- therefore a useful ally, no? Come, you know how it is: the enemy of my enemy..."

"If you think that you can harness Jonathan for your bidding, exploit him- he is your primary enemy. How many times has tried to bring about your death now? Your downfall is his aim and if you give him a foothold in this, in _us_... you are aiding his arsenal. Clary, you play with fire with your hands smeared in gunpowder."

"I did what I had to." Clary continued stubbornly, "He knows nothing of us, of what I want- It is too late to retract now. "

Jace looked away in grim despair, but he could sense her ire ebbing away. She was only reacting thus because she knew him to be right. They quarrelled and needled one another but never fought in earnest, never before had they such opposing stances. Yet she had her point, however despondently she voiced it. There was no rewriting the past. It would appear he and Jonathan were now allies.

"I will not grow to like this," he grumbled bluntly, while Clary tucked her fingers firmly back around his arm in a move of reconciliation, the tips of them starting to cool in the outdoor air. Her free hand she also extended to skim over the velvet material of his sleeve, as though she hoped a few strokes would lull him back to a peaceable state like it might a dog or cat. Rather than annoying him yet further, Jace felt the edges of a laugh scratch at his throat.

"It is not that I have enlisted Jonathan's assistance here that vexes you," Clary began knowingly, "But that I did not turn to _you_."

"And how should it be so terrible if that were so?" Jace demanded with gruff exasperation, "I cannot bear being helpless. What is the point in having a title and a seat on the Council if I cannot use it to aid you? I swore to serve you Clary, yet you will not let me."

He glanced sideways after her when she did not immediately respond and found the slow bloom of a flush spreading across her cheeks, "That is not so. What I need from you I cannot ask from anyone else." She wheeled them around another corner and all but sprinted a few paces, dragging Jace after her. This was utterly absurd, all these ungainly dashes out of earshot. Jace wondered if they were not lost in this little maze by now as Clary spun to face him. His heart gave another jolt as she spied that she was biting her lower lip and the hands she had just detached from him were being rubbed ferociously in a fit of nerves. Jace opened his mouth to urge her to speak, or to remind her that there was nothing she could not say to him but she had already begun to impart her request in a murmur. "I know there is no guarantee that Jonathan will be able to prevent my marrying the Duke of Lorraine. Even were he able to Jonathan is the sort of person who may well sit back and do nothing to spite me. There was something else he spoke of while he was mocking me earlier; he meant to distress me with it and I must confess he rather did."

Wanting to batter the Crown Prince was not a new desire of Jace's but this was perhaps the most keenly he had felt it since the day of Tiller's invasion. "What did he say?" he demanded in an angry rasp.

Clary shook her head and nipped at her own fingertips, her eyes sliding from Jace's and weight swaying a tad as she hastily stated her fears, "He spoke of my marriage bed."

Truthfully, Jace did not know what to say. He could not lie to her; very few women had good words to say of their first experience of marital union. He respected her too much to attempt to fill her ears with shallow reassurances and he could not guarantee that the spouse selected for her would be gentle or that he would care for her pleasure. Husbands tended to look elsewhere for nights of passion, wives were for siring heirs and whores for all other gratification.

Thankfully Clary kept speaking for him, "And I could not help but think of what occurred between us that night by comparison." Jace could not lie to himself either, memories of their brief- embraces- in his bedchamber were not likely to dull anytime soon. He wanted all of it- _all of her_ -again, properly. Admitting to that, however, was likely to do the opposite of remedying anything.

"My wants and needs are never going to matter but that is not enough to quell them, or so I have found. I do not want to lie with a man for the first time and that man be old enough to be my father, or a stranger to me. It seems nonsensical, when there is a man right by me that I love. Who I want."

"Clary-" Jace made to stop her half-heartedly, both alarmed and allured by what may come next.

"I am supposed to be a virgin on my wedding night, I know that. Yet I have heard things, women have their secrets and I know that there are tricks, ways of pretending-"

" _Clary!"_

"No one would know of it but us. Even were I discovered in my deceit I would already have been married and an alliance already agreed. Let us not pretend that my father's friendship and gold is not all my husband wants from our union. Particularly Duke Antoine, who already has his sons. He could overlook a transgression. Besides, I am a convincing actress who may never be caught. Come Jace- you cannot deny you do not want this too!" She could tell he was uncommitted to a stance of resistance now, if indeed he ever had been committed. "One night" she whispered pleadingly as the sound of her approaching ladies grew ever closer, "That is all I ask of you."

One doubt thrashing about in Jace's brain remained most prominent, so he voiced it while he could much as he did not want to, for the stakes of such a gamble were too high; "And if you conceived?"

Clary shook her head impatiently as a few rays of sunlight gave a darting peek out through a crack in the clouds, "It would be close enough to my wedding- the last possible moment- and a child could be passed off as my husband's."

Jace had to chuckle admirably at her pragmatism, even past the prospect of him having Clary at long last only for her to be snatched immediately from him, possibly while carrying his child. "You have thought all this out impeccably."

Clary's gaze had brightened with the day, "You mean you will..?"

"We shall see. Much could change and it may not come to that."

Whatever Clary might tell herself Jonathan did know what was here, at least partially. So too Valentine, unless he had been rendered blind and deaf unbeknown to anyone, must have at least an inkling of why his protégé and daughter seemed to find so many happy coincidences which allowed them to see one another. Still, it was permitted to continue. They had drawn themselves short of entering one another's bedchambers again (the brazen spirit which their near death encounters fostered had, previous to the recent proposal, lapsed away with the warm weather) but they were hardly subtle.

Was this Valentine's way of giving his blessing? The Council by and large would object heatedly to Jace courting the Princess, of that he was certain, and while Valentine had to pander to them as King... his silence and determination to look the other way could be his method of encouragement. If Jace were right and Valentine did want him to keep pursuing Clary, then the plan he had started to form may not be suicide after all. But then why entertain Lorraine? Perhaps simply because it offered so much Jace could not. The best he had was a debt drowned estate, tenants with a rebel streak he had yet to properly lay eyes on and a title which had not beem officially confirmed. Duke Antoine would bring gold, an alliance and a line of defence against the heresy Valentine feared worse than the plague and loathed more than disobedience. Besides, His Majesty was not a sentimental man, he certainly would not waste his only daughter's hand to make Jace feel more included in the closest thing he had to a blood family.

"Clary- there may be another way," he began now, the words that had been weighing on him for so long springing loose with lightening haste, horses or hounds out of a gate: "You could not be packed off to satisfy a foreign treaty were you already married."

 _-0000000000000-_

* * *

 ** _Canal Street, Alicante, Late September 1536_**

Not that Alec was exactly focused as it were, but whatever scraps of a plan he had devised on the impulsive barge ride here were scattered to the wind minutes after his arrival. What had finally thrown him off whatever haphazard train of thought he had pieced together was the sight of Magnus Bane answering his own door.

He may have only been to the house once before but already it felt alien to him in the daylight and above all strikingly empty. Last time the darkness had only been interrupted by the rows of illuminated windows and what shadowy outlines of the Bane hacienda his limited eyesight had been able to pick out had made it seem even more colossal than it was. Not that the house transformed into a hovel come sunrise, but it seemed less of a labyrinthine palace. It was large and stately, of that there was no doubt, but the lawns and walled gardens that had once been full of revellers were empty as Alec trekked through them in an effort to locate the main thoroughfare. Not only were they quiet, they were deserted. Not so much as a gardener or an errand boy crossed paths with Alec in all the time he wandered. It was as though the house was one of a fairy story, the magical grandeur of its nights destroyed by the sunlight which rendered it a ghost house.

The gardens themselves seemed a little worse for wear, the huge clods of earth churned up and footprints marked in soil scarred the once neat lawn. The hedges had become a little oppressive, having been left unattended for a while their formerly perfectly cubed forms now more bedraggled, which then saw Alec constantly scratched and clawed at by branches and serrated leaves. For all he knew the servants had abandoned it during that fateful day parts of the city had undergone rebel occupation. This was not one of the districts that had been among the worst pillaged by Tiller's men, Alec knew from having assisted Jace in his readings of some of the reports. They had targeted all of the finer homes, making no distinction in what belonging to the ancient gentry and what the nouveau riche like Magnus possessed.

Despite all of that, coming upon a rather promising door that had been painted a garish red (coloured doors? Whatever next?) Alec was beginning to wonder if the owner of the house had not disappeared with his party guests. His heart hammered in time with the pounding of his fists on the door. After the long minutes trailed by without a response, Alec was preparing to give up hope when he heard at last the dull thunder of approaching feet descending the steps, the clatter and the scrape of an opening bolt and then the door was swinging open to reveal none other than Magnus himself. The owner seemed equally as shocked to see Alec as he was to see him.

"Ma-Magnus?"

"Why who were you expecting? The King of England?" Typical, once he recovered from his surprise, Magnus took the first available route to snarkiness.

Alec, who had already worked himself up and down the rocky mountain path of a real fury found his blood heating quicker than anticipated- "That is what you have to say to me? After all this time, after all that has happened, you think you can address _me_ like that?!"

He flung out his hands and they fisted in the chain dangling around the other man's neck. The cold metal bit into his fingers but failed to level his temper any. Conversely it urged Alec on to twist them around his knuckles and haul Magnus forward until there was scarcely an inch between their eyes.

"Alec- are you going to hit me?" His voice may have spiked with disbelief, but the way in which Magnus presented the question implied that he had no interest in evading the blow should the answer be yes. Admittedly, Alec considered it for a second, before closing the distance between them with a kiss instead. Their lips ground together, hot and demanding and for the first time it was Alec who was the more dominant of the two.

By the time they finally broke apart, panting and hotter than ever, Magnus was the only one who recovered quickly enough to speak, "For if so, might I ask that you leave my face be and strike elsewhere? It is my one redeeming feature."

Alec's grip on him did not loosen even slightly and later he would discover the angry red lines pressed into his skin by the medallions. At that moment, all he could do was blink at Magnus incredulously. The only thing his lips were capable of shaping was his one truly burning question, "Where the devil have you been?"

"Ah..." As best he could while Alec was still in a good position to strangle him, Magnus shifted on the spot and let his gold and green flecked eyes flit away. "We cannot all have your noble bravery, dearest Alexander. So you see... I decided I was much too young to die for Valentine's greed."

"Valentine's greed?" Sadly, it did not look as though Alec's voice was going to lower to a pitch that was not sky high with incredulity any time soon, "What of your own? Think you that this-"he flung his eyes around their surroundings- "is the epitome of clean and modest living?"

"But-"Magnus raised a long slender finger and held it between their almost-touching chests- "Unlike the Council I do not exploit the destitute. _I_ exploit the very very rich."

"To give to the poor?" Alec questioned ironically.

Magnus smiled ruefully in return, still struggling a little to regain his breath "Alas- there you have me. The proceeds I keep for myself."

"Never would have suspected."

"At risk of being kissed again, are you going to stand on my doorstep all day giving a moral lecture while you contemplate throttling me, or would you not consider coming indoors to do so?"

Alec may still be furious at the man, but with the taste of Magnus still upon his lips there were a great many things he could gladly contemplate doing to him which were more preferable to violence in that moment. So, in spite of knowing that there were a dozen places he should otherwise be and probably hundreds of more sensible things and people to pursue, Alec crossed the threshold.

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

Valentine prayed intensely even these days. Not that Jonathan himself had ever been able to find the peace in prayer that others savoure, but on the many occasions he had found himself on his knees in the royal pew beside his sire, he had yet to be glad of the serenity Valentine found in the service. As a child, Mass had been another of Jonathan's many stresses. For though Valentine was sure to be enraptured for much of the ordeal, he did not lose the keen sight or hearing that his son had once been convinced was supernatural. Should Jonathan stumble over a single syllable of the droning Latin responses, should he make to stand when he ought to kneel or sit, or God have mercy on him- hesitate to lower his head at the consecration of the Host- there would be Hell to pay for his accidental slighting of heaven. After so many years of enduring the services, Jonathan had mastered the art of appearing bodily engrossed in the Mass while allowing his brain the freedom to whittle away at whatever his greatest problems happened to be.

For now, that took the form of Jace Herondale. The past week had been a tumult of wrestling with his own qualms about doing as Clary bid and cutting this new suit off at the legs before it might stand. He feared that should he do so he were playing right into the enemy's hands- Jace's. But it had been difficult to ignore the truth in what his little sister had so irksomely chirped at him. It seemed that the planets of their ambitions had- perhaps for the only time- aligned. He did not want her married, he wanted her so irreparably dishonoured that she would be consigned to a spinsterdom of shame. He had even considered urging Sebastian to seduce her, since his friend hardly needed inspired to pursue debauchery- but even the young Earl had his limits. Sadly, he was not as stupid as Jonathan had hoped and was unwilling to risk his life for a night of carnality with the Princess. There was also the matter of Clary being heavily guarded and watched- how she was managing to continue her present affair was a mystery. Of course then there was the hindrance that the lynchpin of the whole scheme, Clary herself, had a deep rooted dislike and mistrust of her brother's crony. Therefore Jonathan had abandoned that plot less than an hour after hatching it and moved instead to destroy the Duke of Lorraine's chances with his sister. Much as he hated doing what Clary and her doe eyed worshipper Jace Herondale wanted him to, he could not see a better option. There was something to be gained of it for himself, and he liked having some power over his little sister at last, though she lived in the fantasy she was playing the game for herself with a prince as her pawn. He resolved to neutralise the threat of Lorraine as best he could, then once he had his father's ear again he would make good of it and have Clary packed off to an eighty year old with a terrible army and even worse breath. _That_ he could pray for.

However as it had transpired there was no need for such pleading now he knelt in the darkened, empty chapel beside the King. Valentine had been nowhere near as enamoured by the Duke's suit as he had pretended to the embassy and seemed more than happy to drop the prospective betrothal like a hot cake once Jonathan whispered a warning of the eastern heresies into his sovereign's ear.

"The Duke's faith is unquestioned." Valentine had protested half-heartedly, fixing a sceptical look on his son as they had walked to the chapel together. Jonathan had decided that the only time he was likely to get a moment alone with his father was if he requested permission to accompany Valentine to the final Mass of the day, which His Majesty always attended in private. "Antoine of Lorraine is firmly loyal to Rome" Valentine had pressed on, his voice mingling with the echo of their footfalls down the stone corridor, "He has been tireless in his efforts to root out the false Christians in his territories."

"Of course," Jonathan amended, sensing that the words of defence were shallow and the King was looking at him again with silent invitation to continue. "The fact remains that there are so many of these so-called reformists in Lorraine, seeping over the border with ease from the German states and infecting the Western churches. While the Duke himself may be of sound conscience and faith, the same cannot be said of his entire court. There are bound to be rats in the rotting nest and his heir is young and impressionable."

"Is that so?" Valentine enquired, pausing at the doors to survey his son with one of those penetrating stares Jonathan so loathed. Only this one was tinged with the kind of intensely impatient excitement that was usually only donned when Valentine was very close to getting his own way. Or, if the satisfied elation building in his low voice was anything to tell by, as though he had just glimpsed a sign he was very close to getting exactly what he wanted. "So be it. I suppose your sister will not be Duchess of Lorraine either." He sounded teasingly tragic, but Valentine never jested. Especially on such important matters.

Jonathan's breath caught and he swung his shoulder to one side so as to better survey his King. "You are decided? You will not wed Clary to Lorraine?"

"And desert our only daughter in a den of heretics? We cannot have that."

"You are...easily swayed Father."

Valentine chuckled, resuming his stride, "When I wish to be. Rejecting an alliance, however unlikely, immediately out of hand is poor kingship. As is entertaining only one possibility. So I wanted to measure the merits of Duke Antione's suit before I made any rash decisions." Previous to Jace Herondale's instalment as Duke of Broceland Jonathan would have been certain that his father had not the capacity to make a rash decision. Then again, he had married Jocelyn Fairchild before consulting anyone after only having known her a few weeks. Mayhap Valentine had something of an impulsive streak. Or perhaps the haste to the alter had cured him of it, considering how that had ended. Once bitten, twice shy.

Since Jocelyn had abandoned both of them, one would assume that the bitterness might have nurtured a solidarity between the Morgenstern men, yet as past events had illustrated Valentine would not hear the woman spoken ill of. As though Jonathan did not have a right to feel aggrieved that his mother had disappeared from his life, or that she saw fit to take his sister with her and leave him behind? Logical and conniving as His Majesty may be, there was still some delusional part of him that harboured the hope that he could mend things with his long estranged wife. Jonathan hastily snapped himself out of thoughts of his mother, as they always did more harm than good anyway and Valentine was speaking again.

"Truth be told I never considered it a fortuitous match." Distanced from their conversation as he was it took Jonathan a moment to recollect himself and realise it was not of his own marriage Valentine spoke.

"No?" Jonathan was inching toward joy himself, albeit most cautiously. On one hand, some success at long last tasted sweet, on the other: that had been much too easy. Valentine shook his head, not managing to shake the half smile still crested upon his lips. "There is too much at stake to squander Clarissa's hand." That stoked Jonathan's curiosity again, and he felt himself tense as though anticipating some blow. Before he could articulate this inexplicable alarm or even voice his incomprehension they had arrived at the chapel. "Now, Jonathan. Let us give thanks to the Lord for showing us the weakness in Duke Antoine's suit, and for continuing to watch over our family." Jonathan was watched, that was certain, but not by God. As though Valentine did not keep one eye firmly pasted to his heir at all times, especially since the Dauphin episode. He did, however, have shockingly little to say of it. Unease crackled through Jonathan's veins yet again and he could not dislodge the sense of dread weighing on his chest. It was disconcerting how quickly he had veered from relief to this. Yet the more he thought on it, the more alarmed he grew. Not even Father Jeremiah's never ending stream of gratitude for their recent evasion of disaster could tame Jonathan's rising dismay. He could not escape the feeling that some fresh, worse calamity was on the horizon. Although the shadowy chapel was eternally chilly and nightfall saw the coloured glass windows doused in black Jonathan found himself starting to sweat. He heard rather than saw the rain beginning to pour, droplets splattering and shuddering the inky glass, the latest of many reminders that the summer was over.

As the parting blessing was called down Jonathan was more conflicted than ever. First and foremost he wanted to retreat back to his quarters, flush out any servants he encountered within and then spend what remained of the evening getting progressively drunker and coming up with a plan. Next he needed to pick apart any possible way this turn in Clary's fortunes could prove destructive, extract what their father meant when he spoke of stakes and then arm himself against all of it. Much as he hated it, going on the offensive had not helped him thus far; he had to mount a self-defence. If only he knew what the devil he needed to guard against. He even contemplated finding Clary first and imparting all that had just occurred in a bid to see her reaction first-hand and see if that provided an opportunity to deduce what she meant to do next.

Jonathan had never been unnerved by the dark, not even when he were very small but now he found himself moving as fast as he could while maintaining an appropriate gait toward the exit. The sedately twitching candles made him jumpy and the many icons now caped in darkness seemed more ghostly than ever, their smiles or downcast expressions suddenly grotesque and depressing in equal measures. His restless agitation spiralled at the sight of a hooded figure blocking the aisle near the exit. It was a woman, he noted, and a petite one. With a swooping breath to calm himself, Jonathan began to relax at the recognition of his sister.

Valentine however, had stopped dead beside him. The King took one, faltering step toward her and then halted once more, pressing his lips shut on whatever he had been about to say. A pace behind him, Jonathan felt his muscles spring back into a brace position, his shoulders squaring and tension coiling once more. Two hands that seemed grey in the gloom, devoid of jewellery entirely, flittered upwards and drew down the hood amidst a cascade of displaced raindrops.

He had not laid eyes on the woman in nigh on ten years, but Jonathan knew her instantly- and not merely because she was arrestingly similar to Clary. Mothers were supposed to know there children anywhere, were they not? Why then, it made perfect sense the child should identify his mother even after such a long parting. There had been many times as he grew that Jonathan wished he had been able to forget how she looked, yet she remained etched permanently into his mind. The dim lighting made her hair seem darker, flickering torches and great pillars sending the light across her in stripes which amplified the new lines on her face and made her hair- one long braid that had been looped to a ball at the nape of her neck- seem half fire half embers. She was slimmer than he recalled too, the bones jutting out at her cheeks and under the flesh of her hands. It may have suited her, but the charcoal dress she wore could not have flattered anyone, draped lankly as it were over her frame. Jonathan longed to wrench his eyes off her but was unable to. Jocelyn Morgenstern was not looking at him anyway, her attention was now devoted to her husband in a way the woman herself had not been for years.

"Jocelyn," the King uttered her name with dull awe. He paused just a moment more before extending a hand to her, despite his effort failing to convince Jonathan or any of his stunned attendants that he was bit every bit as shocked as they.

His mother drew closer, gaze glittering wariness and not moving from the King, as though he were some kind of wild animal she feared might flee or attack if provoked. Still, she took the proffered hand.

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 _ **A/N: Ooh Jocelyn. Like Backstreet is back, but with a vengeance. Thank you so much for reading once again!**_

 _ **My apologies gave to be extended to Antoine of Lorraine, who I launched something of a smear campaign against in this chapter. Still, I think any teenaged girl would struggle to find the guy attractive. Most of all though I have to apologise to his wife, Renee du Bourbon, who was very much still alive in 1536. Not for very much longer, but still- there was no need to go all Game of Thrones on the woman. Well there was, I needed a possible bridegroom that would not be even slightly tempting for Clary. And you have started to pick up on the potential of a Herondale/Morgenstern nuptial for which I credit you ;) More on that next chapter- whenever it may be I finish and upload that one.**_

 _ **I will apologise in advance for what is sure to be an even more erratic schedule than usual. However I am coming to a pretty hectic few weeks I'd imagine- I am going to university! (Whoop! *nervous shaking*) Yay education!**_


	20. An Heir

**_A/N:_ _Hey guys! Long time no see... oops. The only thing I want to preface this with is a note to beware the time skips between sections :) Otherwise not everything will make sense._**

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 _An Heir_

 ** _Branwell House, Aconite, Eastern Idris, Late September 1514_**

A month ago Jocelyn had been begging Valentine to take her home, now she was wondering when was too soon to suggest they return to Alicante. She felt guilty, her parents were so thrilled to have the honour of housing her and her esteemed husband- especially since her father's fading health kept him from court. And Valentine had gone out of his way to bring her here.

The summer progress had stretched on as for long as the fair weather and bonds of kingship would allow. Which was far too long, Valentine's senior councillors were keen to remind him. Now their neighbour France was no longer at war, the King had to act quickly if he wanted Idris to reap as many of the benefits of the newly established peace as possible. But Jocelyn had been reluctant to return to the city and her husband subsequently indulgent.

She had spent so long effectively in a glass case once Valentine had been informed of her pregnancy. And after the first weeks of this summer saw her confined to the same darkened chambers for _months_ leading to her labour, well Jocelyn had sworn she would never take fresh air for granted again. Mercifully little Jonathan had come early; if she had been left to endure another moment in confinement Jocelyn swore she would have to taken to gouging tracks in the wooden panelling with her fingernails to accompany her descent into insanity. Valentine laughed at her now, believing in his naivety that she exaggerated. That infuriated her, but it was impossible to truly remain angry at her husband these days. He was the happiest she had ever seen him- never blunting that brilliant smile and drifting around court as if he had been freed of all cares. This had been their summer of celebration; with their healthy baby son at their side Valentine had been thrilled to go on a tour of his kingdom and show his boy off. He had deliberately delayed setting off on progress and tarried at Princewater for her- until their baby had been born.

Valentine was jubilant to have his legacy secured. Moreover, now he had proof to shove down the throats of all those who criticised his marriage that God blessed it by blessing them with their strong, perfect son. Jocelyn too had to her cause for merriment, her position secure at last she could face with gloating pride the seas of envious courtiers who despised her common heritage and dramatic rise in the world. She had done all that was asked of a wife, a queen. The present King loved her more than ever for it and her son would be the next one.

She also knew she was lucky that she had lived to revel in her triumph. Childbirth was the most treacherous ordeal a woman could experience, but not only had Jocelyn borne a thriving male child, she had also bounced back from her tribulation remarkably. Within a week of Jonathan's birth she was up and about, striding out to stroll among her summer flowers despite the midwives horrified protests. She supposed it was the common blood in her, she had informed a perplexed Valentine merrily, where princesses wallowed in their misery and delicacy she had no intention of lying about helpless. Pains were worked off much quicker in clean air and with brisk walks.

That had also spurred on her enthusiasm to take to the roads; she could not fill her lungs enough with the floral scented air and she wanted to feel the sun and rain on her face, to reassure herself that the blood and agony of the childbed was behind her. For now at least.

She knew that she would have to go through it all again, queens bore _sons_ where they could. Though the prospect of anything befalling her precious Jonathan sent terror and rage coursing through her with equal power, the reality was that childhood was a hazardous time and not every child made it to maturity. Jocelyn knew that well enough- since the little brothers and sisters her parents had borne after her were now buried in their churchyard, none of them living long enough to walk. While the terror of labour stayed with her it was already dissolving rapidly, and the possibility of more children was far from abhorrent to her; she could not relinquish that image of a little girl that would be all hers.

Jonathan was a boy and a prince, who would one day soon enough be entrusted wholly to the care of men to raise him for kingship. Even now he was put in the care of other women, since queens apparently had more important, honourable things to do than feed and change their own babies. All because physicians (men needless to say) had persuaded themselves that the sooner a woman's milk dried up the sooner she could conceive again.

But a daughter... with no great duties to undertake until she were of marriageable age, she would be placed solely in the care of her mother. Even Valentine was more inclined to entertain the prospect of a little girl with more enthusiasm now he had his precious son and heir.

But not yet. Thought it would be scandalous and possibly heresy to admit it verbally- effectively denouncing her scared task as Valentine's consort- Jocelyn was in no haste to repeat the experience of pregnancy. She had these months of respite at any rate, having only been churched a week ago and therefore at long last liberated from Princewater. Cleansed of the stain of Eve's sin she was only recently permitted to be seen abroad and fit for the company of men once more. The first act of her freedom had been to make for Branwell House, her childhood home. Her mother had been with her for the travail of labour and a source of immeasurable comfort during the days- yes _days_ she had struggled to bring Jonathan into this world. But she had missed her father desperately, and there was something wonderfully sentimental about returning to her parent's house a parent herself. It was also a relief to depart from the bulk of the court. Jocelyn wondered if she would ever get used to living out every waking moment under the scrutiny of dozens of pairs of eyes. God knew, she had yet to so. Because Sir Granville's home was so modest Valentine had stripped away much of his entourage and sent them back toward Alicante, tarrying with only his closest companions at Branwell House so his wife might return to her home for a short time.

Although she dwelt now in the finest houses money could buy, it was this brownstone manor on the fringes of forest that still held the place of home in her heart. A heart that had leapt at the sight of her father- though leaning heavily on a cane- standing in the lane to wave her a welcome home. She had been happy at first, to watch her mother fuss over the grandson Jocelyn had to fight tooth and nail to convince Valentine to bring with them- his physicians were spouting some nonsense about too much open air leaving the babe vulnerable to evil spirits and miasmas. And it was so good to see Luke again, reinstated at Valentine's side as though he had never been gone.

That was Jocelyn's doing too, one of the first things she had done as the mother of the Crown Prince was to wheedle him back into the Council chamber, a feat she achieved long before Jonathan had been christened. Amatis still lay between them: a sheathed sword, a covered but unhealed wound in spite of their refusal to utter her name. Now that she had given him a son there had been few of her desires Valentine could resist, and the fact that already her boy had the sharp features and the silvery fine hair of the King was sufficient to quiet any complaints about Luke's conduct in the months before he had left court. Besides, it had seemed silly to pass through his own lands and not have Luke as their guide. Luke may be Valentine's right hand once more and Jocelyn at the peak of her influence, but still Amatis' name was not to be uttered, nor her situation to be remedied.

It was truly impossible now, with the new Duchess of Broceland due to join Jocelyn's household permanently and her belly starting to swell.

Hence Jocelyn's eagerness to bolt back to the capital, to where her rooms would be full of other women and petitioners and she would be able to pretend the new Lady Herondale was not there. But no- the Duke was shadowing Valentine once more, here among the honourably selected companions to come with them. He was rarely not in Valentine's wake these days, although increasingly more trawled along than a willing follower. Her husband found a peculiar joy in insisting Stephen hold their son, and Jocelyn had at first shared in his mirth. The sight of the brawny, surly Duke awkwardly rocking in his arms the squirming babe who disinherited him had been thoroughly amusing. The other lords had taken to calling him 'the nursemaid', a taunting Jocelyn felt could only be good for the man's insufferable pride. Stephen had always quietly disliked her, looking down his nose on the woman who he was certain knew nothing worth hearing, but while Jocelyn had been confined he had set about undoing most of her hard work at court, and trying to steal Valentine away from her and replace her with his own influence. He had declared himself her enemy, so Jocelyn would gladly mock him alongside Valentine, who delighted as much in her laughter as she did.

But now the jest had soured. Only three days ago Valentine had been urging Stephen to take Jonathan off the young nursemaid's hands in her father's drawing rooms. The Duke had been huffily reluctant, trying to politely wriggle his way out of it, but his monarch had been insistent. "Take him, Stephen!" He had cried with jeering glee, then added with a chortle- "You need the practice, cousin!" The comment had not resonated with Jocelyn immediately but once it had the laughter had ceased, the final giggle almost choking her. Surely not, she had thought desperately, God would not be that cruel-

Hearing her merriment cease Valentine had looked over and smiled her, putting on the warning smile that signalled to her she had best start wearing one herself, whatever she thought or felt. "The Duchess is with child too, darling."

To his credit, Stephen had seemed as astonished as Jocelyn at the situation; pleased, but still disbelieving. It did not seem just to him either, that he could achieve in a handful of weeks what Amatis had longed and prayed for over a decade. It should not have been that easy, Stephen seemed to think, though he never said so. "She is certain of a boy, she tells me," He offered gruffly instead.

Now Jocelyn knew that the child Amatis would have sawed off her right arm and sold her soul for was in the belly of another woman, she struggled to find peace or joy in anything. A woman -who Valentine had also deigned to inform her yesterday- was to join her as a lady in waiting permanently.

"No" she had attempted to put her foot down, only for Valentine to sweep the carpet out from under her, sighing and fixing an exasperated stare upon her as though she were being unreasonable. "I do not want her!" _Not now_ she had added to herself, feeling as though Celine's protruding stomacher was a personal betrayal. She had spoken of children with the woman and they had parted in a sort of friendship, but now the reality of Stephen having sired a child on a woman that was not Amatis was staring at her- she felt ill. If Celine was to have a child there was naught to be done about it now, but she did not have to waltz about the court exhibiting her condition in front of all the people who had been Amatis' friends, God in heaven: _her brother._

"Jocelyn, she will attend you! She is the Duchess of Broceland. It would look amiss if she did not join your household. It would be a slight to her and my cousin. It may send a bad message; that we do not approve of her marriage. The marriage which was _my_ doing, let me remind you." He had taken her hands in his and stepped closer. "We acknowledge her with every honour. You will welcome her with open arms. Thus we acknowledge her and the child she carries."

That snared Jocelyn's attention, and saw her abandon whatever line of protest she had been about to pursue- "What?"

Valentine smiled at her, the way he usually did when he had surprise for her: a picnic planned or some new jewel or foreign delicacy to treat her with. He lifted her hands and kissed her folded fingers. "You will see, God willing." Then, more firmly, "For now you will do as I told you."

"Valentine..." He hushed her softly. Stubbornly, she had voiced her argument anyway- "Surely it is pointless now? She will be leaving to have her child..."

Valentine had only snickered and shook his head, as though there was something endlessly amusing about her persistence. "Not for months yet." he grew sterner- "Do not fight me on this, Jocelyn. I will hear no more of it."

The greatest betrayal was that of her own heart, which now dared to leap at the sight of Celine Herondale's happiness, for a brightness that clung to her and would not be tarnished by the chilly reception she received. Whatever her inward treasons Jocelyn made herself as aloof as possible, greeting her new lady with all the necessary pleasantries while delivering them as unpleasantly as possible. She made a point of doing so both in Luke's sight and hearing in the hopes that it may mend some rifts between the two of them. Sorry as she may have once felt for Celine, if losing her friendship was the cause of maintaining and rekindling Luke's, then she would pay it with ease. Or so she had once thought.

Now, watching her perch on Valentine's arms and laugh- truly laugh (the sweetest tremor of sound Jocelyn had ever heard) it was difficult to begrudge the young Duchess her joy. While finding the woman in such fine spirits ought to have smoothed out whatever misgivings she had about shunning her, since it proved that she was not so greatly in need of the protector Jocelyn had once thought she would be, it made being cold challenging. Nay; impossible. Her attempts to brush the woman aside went unnoticed. Celine Herondale, resplendent in sky blue and sapphires that had once belonged to another, had long ago abandoned the fight to keep the smile off her face. Jocelyn meanwhile, could not keep her eyes away from the obvious bulge under her new companion's skirts. There was a lingering sense of déja vu in the air, in finding herself seated adjacent to the Duke and Duchess like this, before a meal she had no appetite for, but much had changed since then. And it had not.

Now Jocelyn was a mother, and Celine was about to become one. The discourse over dinner was not about to stray from the topic for very long either. The young queen had envied her mother's crisp refusal to dine with them, and had almost even envied her father his frail health and ability to take to his bed for the day. Lady Branwell (the former Lady Granville now a baroness, as of her daughter's announced pregnancy. Raising her parents in the world had been Valentine's attempt to wash out the salted wound that had been Luke's exile) had extended her dining parlour and kitchens to her sovereign, but she was not about to extend her welcome to the women she called "the French hussy" without much caring who was within earshot. Jocelyn was beginning to doubt whether even her mother's storming in here and calling Celine a whore and an adulteress to her face would dim the shining exultation that was writ so plainly on the Duchess' pretty features. Nor was it likely to halt the hand prone to disappearing under the table at regular intervals to brush against her gently swelling stomach.

Celine had reached that point in her pregnancy where the earliest and most treacherous months had been weathered, and with them the worst of her sickness should have passed. Evidently she were far enough gone for the euphoria to sink in (though with Jocelyn's experience the fabled contentment had yet to be encountered) and her burden was just enough to be perceived under the many layers of her gown but had yet to make her cumbersome. All of which should have been thoroughly distasteful, but it was plain to behold that the lady's unwarranted veneration of her husband had not waned and if anything the anticipated arrival of their child had amplified it. Much as she may have loathed the situation, if not earnestly the other woman, Jocelyn still could not peel her eyes off Celine. She made a veritable Madonna.

Recalling herself at that stage in pregnancy all that came to mind for Jocelyn was poor skin, an unshakable fatigue and either gorging or disgorging herself frequently. Her irritability could not have been further from the serenity Celine would seem to float around in, buoyant on the bubble of her belly. Envy was not the sole reason for Jocelyn's struggle to smooth her glaring expression out at all, but given her already present conflicted loyalties and discomfort her baffled jealousy was not improving the mood any. In fact, while Stephen seemed to reflect her surliness and Celine immune to it, Valentine had taken to pinning one displeased eye on her. She knew that before long she would be told how unacceptably unreasonable she was being- and reminded how he expected more form her "of all people." She was supposed to be his helpmeet after all. She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with as much delicacy as she could muster, as if that soft touch of fabric could urge them up into a convincing smile.

As Céline melted to another bout of laughter and Jocelyn automatically felt a laugh of her own spring up to join she realised it was small wonder Luke was disgusted at her. She made the perfect Janus, publicly shunning the woman and privately playing the bosom companion. She had thought that by now she would have reconciled who she had been with who she now was, at last aligning the knight's daughter and the queen- pummelling them into one if need be. Now she wondered if she was not letting one murder the other. She had thought that Valentine loved her for who she was and as such no serious change would be necessary, that the court would love her for their King's sake. That had been a silly daydream. Letting her laughter drain away she wondered of she need have truly bothered.

Aside from the one unimpressed glance Valentine had not looked twice at her. The dainty, gleeful Frenchwoman captivated him. And would for the foreseeable future.

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Stephen had yet to decide of being back in the very bosom of the King's friendship and confidence was to be celebrated after all. He had slaved to try and regain Valentine's approval, had been doing so for months, since he had agreed to marry Celine in the first place. He may as well wholeheartedly commit to this damned course. If only to prove to himself he could commit to something.

He was not blind, he could see Valentine's faults all too clearly. He never knew when to stop; once something he desired caught his eye he would fling himself and everyone who touched him to hell in order to get it. And he was never capable of seeing when an aim were impossible, or even not worth the difficulty of its achievement. Stephen supposed the old King had to bear the brunt of blame of that, God knew the first King Valentine and his wife and not exactly been warm and loving people, but they had poured every hope and aspiration onto the only heir they had ever been blessed with. They had sheltered and pampered him in many ways, out of fear that their one legacy might be lost to the slightest misfortune. As a result Valentine was not always inclined to be reasonable. It was his way or no way.

All of that considered, the Duke ought to have known better.

Being invited to dine privately with his monarch signified that things were at long last starting to go Stephen's way, only for him to destroy the new, fragile harmony between himself and Valentine permanently.

It had started off pleasantly enough; the usual banter swaying back and forth, laughter, fine wine and reminiscing about their shared boyhood. The two of them had more besides an ancestry in common, at any rate they'd once had.

Both of them born to great expectations (Valentine arguably moreso) and the only possible heir to their respective destinies. As the only heir apparent to the crown Valentine had been smothered most of his life. He had, for a boy who would one day govern single-handedly the entire realm, relatively little freedom. Stephen's mother meanwhile had exerted every piece of influence she had to ensure that the education provided for the young Crown Prince was shared by her son in its entirety. The young duke to be would have been called to attendance of the king to be anyway by sheer virtue of his good birth, but that had not been close to enough to see Lady Imogen placated. She would have had Stephen eating off the very same plate as Valentine if she could, and although as far as old Queen Seraphina was concerned the Christ child himself could arrive at their court and not be fit to polish her son's boots, somehow Stephen's position at Valentine's right hand was consolidated. Knowing his mother, Stephen could happily accept that the queen had simply relented to shove the duchess back into silence. Whatever the cause the result had been two boys inseparable. Until of course Lucien Graymark had appeared on the scene from nowhere.

Ironically, Stephen had been responsible for the arrival of the man who supplanted him. Not long after Amatis was established at court her brother was being thrust into Valentine's presence: quiet, clumsy and serious Lucian Graymark. Who would have thought that stony face would disguise the stone that would send so many ripples through their closeted, comfortable world at court. For it was through him that Jocelyn Fairchild first made His Majesty's acquaintance and from there on the two of them were rarely very far from the King's side. The new blood at court put many of the old favourites' noses out of joint, and despite vowing to his father on his deathbed that he would do no such thing Valentine had married the knight's daughter before the old monarch was even cold in his grave.

Stephen's father had been one of the old giants toppled by Jocelyn's influence, deemed too old and stubborn to be of use to a new young King. While Stephen had managed to cling on, a great many were less fortunate. His father never voiced any regret over arranging his son's marriage to the Lord of Aconite's eldest daughter, even as he grew to see it was that wedding that sent less of a ball and more of an avalanche rolling. Much as Imogen had sniffed that the match was "beneath him" it had transferred a sizeable portion of the central westerlands into their pockets, pockets that were nicely lined by a more than generous dowry. Lord Graymark had paid almost every penny he had, beggaring himself for the dowry that would make his daughter a duchess. Stephen was glad the old man had not lived long enough to see just how poorly that investment had paid off.

While over the years his mother had warmed in many ways to his first spouse, there was no fiercely flowing loyalty that urged her to hesitate in spurning Amatis in favour of Celine and her now ripening belly. If his new wife made good on her promise and delivered a son then Stephen could anticipate that his mother may just have her canonised. She'd waited over a decade fruitlessly for a grandson, she reminded him incessantly- as though Stephen had been elsewhere for the past ten years.

The quiet snarl of the nearby fire and the crackling laughter across the table brought him back to the present, to where Valentine was poised at the other end of the table, elbow propped on an armrest and the wine filled cup of finest Venetian glass raised. He did not move to take another sip, the glass was almost full, only the slightest quiver of the ruby black liquid within denoting where the drink skimmed beneath the rim. Although his face held a bright merriment Valentine had taken little more than a sip of his wine all night. Stephen had shown no such restraint, his own glass and been emptied and refilled several times. It was a token of the air of celebration that was almost oppressive, hanging around this court and clinging to each member like woodsmoke, that the glasses had been aired tonight. Usually Valentine reserved them for diplomatic meetings or celebration banquets.

As ever it was not long before the cause of the King's unquenchable happiness was referenced. The Duke bore it as long as he could before interrupting, "I expect to know the joys of parenthood soon enough," half spluttering over another long draught of the nicest French wine that the royal cellars had to offer.

Valentine's mouth twitched.

"Would you credit my mother is happy? Or as happy as that wretched witch is ever likely to get, I fathom. She has Celine tortured with her fussing, simply dictating each morsel that passes her lips and every step she takes these days." All of which Celine bore in an unruffled silence and with her undiluted smile, naturally.

The settlement was far from disagreeable, Stephen was glad to keep his distance and transfer his pregnant bride wholly into his mother's care. He had no reason to cling to Celine, no need to even touch her anymore. His work was done here, henceforth she dwelled entirely in a world of women's matters and secrets. And if his lack of attention riled her, or indeed if that loss of what little interest he had take disturbed Celine, she must hide it extraordinarily. He could not credit it, her face was one of the most open he had encountered. Oddly, her acceptance of his long absences and the slightly callous manner in which he had left her at the mercy of Her Majesty's household irked Stephen more than it did Celine. Sometimes he would be particularly terrible to her, just to see if that cheerful forbearance might be chipped. It could not.

Still, please God she did have a son. Then they need never repeat this cycle. He told Valentine as much, "One can only hope that there's a boy at the end of this. Then we need never trouble ourselves on the subject again."

Valentine's smile peaked, "You really crave a son, Stephen?" He made a vague tilting motion with the wine glass and his brows darted upward in surprise, "Pity. A girl would be so much better for all concerned."

Stephen swatted away the servant who had stepped forward with a refill, like he might a particularly bothersome fly. _Why must they hover?_ He demanded silently of no one, they ought to complete the one task they had and disappear promptly. "What the devil does that mean?"

Valentine's reappeared smile quirked upwards to one side again, "Think about it" he coaxed, each syllable sleeker than the last. The subtle change screamed to the familiar ear that there was something Valentine wanted here, but thinking hard was an impossible trial for Stephen's alcohol saturated mind. He slurped on his drink instead of replying, attempting to convey his dilemma as best he could. It would truly take something supreme to divert the King, however. "I have a son now, were you to have a daughter..." He lowered his glass at last, it landed upon the table with a quiet thud and Valentine slid his fingers over the base, continuing; "A union between our bloodlines would solidify the line of succession immeasurably. The final old dynasty blood combined with that of me and mine- no one could dispute the right of that lineage to the crown of Idris."

Softly as Valentine made his proposal, the words still pounded through Stephen's head and his dull protest broke free of him before he could stop it, "No. No." The briefest of pauses before another, "No."

A death knell.

"No, none could stand in our way once-"

Stephen burst into a noisy, grating and uncontrolled bray of laughter. This was ridiculous. "I mean no to all of it Valentine" he spluttered, dragging his sleeve across his mouth as he tried to choke back the continuing chortling.

Valentine's brows rose so high that his upper forehead was crumpled into furrows of astonishment. "No?"

The King could probably count on one hand the amount of times he had heard that phrase, at least so bluntly. Drunk and more than a little insulted, that amused Stephen further still. He shook his head and snorted on, "There's no way. For one, I believe Celine when she tells me to expect a boy. Even were she to give me a daughter- I would not give her to _you_."

Valentine's eyes could well have been chips of charcoal, one could almost imagine the heat of his rage building behind them, seconds from bursting to flames. "You have had too much to drink, cousin." His voice was dangerously low and full of threatening sympathy. "Too often you reach for the wineskin of late and I have noticed it. I spared you any comment because I know your pride, but if it keeps driving to such folly-"

"I would rather be a defiant drunkard than your meek puppet sober" Stephen rasped out, head swimming not just from the drink but from the repressed anger of almost a year now, that rankling resentment that had simmered just below the surface for years in fact- each time that Valentine dismissed him and put his own ambitions and desires aside. "Pray tell Stephen, what it is exactly I have done to you that was so dreadful? I rose you up at this court-"

"No more than was my birthright" he snarled in return.

Valentine blinked, his jaw beginning to stiffen with real fury, "Or is it your matrimonial misfortunes you think to blame on me? Was ridding you of a barren wife such a disservice?" He lurched forward in his seat with such force that the chair beneath him screeched, and although there was still the remnants of the roast hog on the table between them the King and his wrath seemed startlingly close. "And why do you think I did all of that Stephen? Because I felt sorry for you? Because your lady mother had you tormented about a legacy and I gave a damn? Do not flatter yourself; it is far from personal." His Majesty made a show of lifting a fork and spearing the air before him with it jauntily, "In fact, I look upon you and I can see exactly why no Herondale will ever sit on this throne again. Yet your blood is far too precious for the line to die with you, though initially I thought that convenient. No, there must be some merit in it, and in time I came to appreciate there are more benefits than drawbacks to keeping you and yours around. So let me measure my kin and yours. I gave you Celine so that you would at last father a child, a child with Herondale blood. A Herondale girl, I pray, to become a Morgenstern queen. In spite of you and your damnable attitude, I would reward your line most profoundly."

Stephen clenched his fists atop the tablecloth, watching the firelight flicker over his tense and protruding knuckles before letting his eyes slide upward to his King. They snagged en route back upon the carcass before him, to the ripe garnet of an apple clenched in its jaws.

No pig at this court dared squeal. You just took the juicy rewards Valentine saw fit to give you and let him carve you up as he pleased.

"I have no objection to any daughter of mine being a queen. How could I? With ease I could make her one at any court in Europe. My complaint is that to make her queen of Idris I would have to surrender that child to _you_. That I will never do Valentine." He narrowed his eyes as ferociously as he could, "Let me assure you, it is _personal_."

For a wonderful moment Valentine looked as if he had been struck by the heel of the Duke's hand as opposed to his words. "You have _ruined_ me, and the abomination here is that it took me years to see it and half my bodyweight in wine to say it."

"I ruined you," Valentine pronounced the echoed statement with vile amusement.

"Yes!" Stephen pressed on, "I was not always like this; never used to be this heartless, ruthless man. Mayhap I was always selfish- never to the point that I would do anything to anyone to achieve my desires. You taught me that for you did the very worst possible and then persuaded me that God and circumstance mitigated it. Have you any idea what is going on in this country- the suffering that occurs in the city just beyond these palace gates?"

At this point Valentine began to rock with laughter- "A champion of the people now are we? Let me assure you, you are the very last of a long list of people they might cry out for as their hero."

"I know that," Stephen snickered, "I know I will never be a man of principle. I let you take away the only good thing in my life, the only woman who may have inspired me to goodness. To anything. I will never be a good man, but I do not want to be a bad one. I have my own mind and I will not let you push me from square to square any longer. You may be master of the realm Valentine, God damn you at this point I may never be fully the master of my own mind and body again; but you will not take my child. _He_ will be a better man than I. A better man than you. I will make sure of it and I will keep him far, _far_ away from you. Him you will not ruin."

At that Stephen stumbled his way upright, flinging the glass back to the table with enough violence that it immediately toppled over, and with a loud crack the first fissure split its way across the clear surface. The remainder of wine flooded out, spoiling the white tablecloth and seeping into the very wood of the table. While the duke strode out of the chamber on unsteady footing Valentine was left to ponder the listless advance of red liquid.

Suddenly, between where the two men had sat across the decadent table there seemed to be blood.

- _0000000000000000-_

* * *

 ** _Havenfold House, Eastern outskirts of Alicante, March 1518_**

There was something altogether pathetic about being unnerved by a child. Especially one that had barely turned three. Yet here Jocelyn was, creeping like some kind of thief through her own nursery and stealing time with her children.

Covertly, she tried to slip her heels along the heavy carpets that blanketed every free inch of flooring, since a fear of childhood tumbles had been instilled in her. Her mother had insisted on the carpets, stuffing them into every corner and cranny she could locate the very moment Jonathan had successfully hauled himself upright (albeit using the nurse's fingers and not his mother's) and taken his first solo steps. Jocelyn was glad of them, as they in the least muffled her approach into the sunlight rooms at the front of the house that served as a playroom. Nonetheless, in spite of her efforts at stealth, the blazing gold eyes snapped to her almost immediately.

Years later and the startling colour of those eyes still threw her peace of mind asunder. Not golden brown, not flecked with gold, they rather _were_ pure gold. She knew not where on earth the child had got them. Stephen's had been blue and Celine's an extremely ordinary hazel. It was one of the many puzzlings Jocelyn picked apart in her brains at late hours, when the rest of the palace was asleep.

Currently she schooled her features blank and whipped her strides onwards as if she did not feel the hot curiosity of that young gaze on her. She never could evade the sense that the child was judging her, that he assessed her with an intelligence far beyond his years. It did not help that when he moved he could do so with almost utter silence if he wished. His words were few and, even at three, _three,_ gave the impression of being carefully selected.

In her mind Jocelyn had taken to calling him "the other Jonathan." She would not, could not, bear that he bore the same name as her own blessed son. But apparently it had been imparted to the yowling babe in his mother's parting breath, and for whatever reason Valentine had allowed it to stick when he had taken the orphan into their household. Put him in _her_ nursery. Keeping her eyes turned forward as though she had been blinkered the queen paced to the little patch of sun below the slightly cracked open window and to the crib there.

Midwives were constantly wrangling back and forth as to whether or not fresh air was to be recommended with babes, some argued that the risk of chills outweighed any potential benefits, but Jocelyn had been raised in the country and had spent every moment she could rambling out of doors. Still, while she hadn't given leaving Jonathan to nap in the gardens a second thought, this time she worried. She constantly did with her youngest child.

Amalia was nowhere near as robust as her brother, and while her ladies all fell over one another to reassure her such was often the way with girls Jocelyn remained unconvinced. She needed no experience as a midwife or knowledge as a physician to see Amalia was not thriving.

Her little daughter blinked up sleepily at her as she were scooped up, not protesting with as much as a squeak or a wriggle. Jonathan had been an eerily quiet baby too, but not to this extent. With Amalia Jocelyn rather got the impression the child could not make noise rather than would not, as if she knew herself that every scrap of energy she had ought to be preserved.

As a result, the room was pleasantly quiet as the queen began to rock her youngest child; Jonathan had charged outside the instant that the rain had stopped and the nurses knew to give Jocelyn a wide berth when she visited. Not because she was some kind of demon in her governing her children's miniature household- though she had heard tales of mistresses who were a holy terror- Jocelyn knew that each of the women had been carefully chosen and knew perfectly well what they were doing when it came to the raising of children, even royals. But she saw little enough of her son and daughter as it were, her many queenly duties still kept her occupied. And even when they did not, Valentine was adamant that it was not proper for her to spend too much time and effort mollycoddling the children. She had tried to reason with him, but short of using the argument that not all mothers were a sealed up, stone-hearted harpy like his had been, she was not likely to sway him. As it were, she was struggling to sway him on very much these days.

He was increasingly shutting himself off with his councillors, and paid her very little heed. He pulled away from Luke too, she'd learned. Ever since Stephen's betrayal had come to light he tended to lean more on the new blood at court. Jocelyn tried to settle those concerns and focus on the child in her arms, but that only granted the conditions for yet another set of worries to breed. The two were not as distanced as she might hope, more than anything she was beginning to feel that Amalia's poor health was _frustrating_ more than anything to Valentine. Shocking as that were Jocelyn had taken to avoiding the topic. There was no use in bothering Valentine when there was nothing he could do about it. No sense in annoying him needlessly. She tried to reassure herself that it was simply a case of her husband taking out his helplessness on her. Of course it was distressing their child was wasting away and there was naught either of them could do to stop it. Nonetheless, it was hard to ignore that there were more and more issues that she had taken to ignoring and yet more lines of discussion she was stopping herself from pursuing.

She settled herself in a nearby chair and started to sing softly, trying to soothe herself as much as her child. The true distraction however proved to be her discreet inspection of the interloper. He never ceased to baffle her. This Jonathan was a relatively quiet child, but equally if in the mood took him he proved insatiably inquisitive. He could walk and talk with the roots of that same sharp carelessness Stephen once had, yet there already lurked behind the bravado something of his mother's vulnerability. He was a child who kept himself to himself, already tending to avoid her Jonathan and even at times the nursemaids. They tended to overlook him, and Jocelyn wondered that were the cause or the product of his detachment. Yet the real source of her discomfiture were times when he would look at her and seem to look _through_ her, as if he were evaluating her every move. The most unsettling part of it all was that when he did so he could have been Valentine's very likeness.

The realisation never failed to send a stab of something not quite anger and not quite dread through her. She longed to peel her eyes away from the child chittering to himself softly on the carpet, fiddling with some of the wooden toys the prince had discarded, but Jocelyn failed to do so. If anything her perusal intensified, searching for what she shrank from possibly seeing.

As though thinking of him had acted a conjuring, Valentine appeared in the doorway. His queen's head snapped up at the sudden unannounced entrance, and she felt her eyes widen in surprise as her mouth popped open. To say what, she never got the chance to discover, for Valentine's attention had yet to cross her. His eyes went immediately to the child that wasn't theirs and he paused to crouch and pat his head before advancing to where his wife waited, resisting a glower.

She would once have been relived to get an opportunity to be alone with him like this, but these days she never knew what to say. Once she had been glad of his company, now she seldom knew what to do with it. He asked her opinions less and less and tended to dislike them when they were offered more than he approved.

Valentine spared Amalia a peek before glancing at Jocelyn finally. "How is she?"

The anger fizzled out instantly with her quiet admission, "Much the same."

Valentine nodded slowly, dropping into the nearest seat and leaning forward, omitting a long sigh. "There is nothing else to be done." His eyes were piercing hers now, as though there were something of great importance in those words he wished to convey.

Jocelyn refused to be baited- "There is always hope, and prayer... she has made it this far against all odds-"

"I know, dearest, I know that. But you cannot spend all your days clinging to her."

"I do not," she protested roughly.

"Perhaps not physically, but you are letting this cloud all you do. We have another child Jocelyn. I know Amalia is dear to you-"

"And she is not to you?" The accusation shot across twice as viciously as she had intended, but there was no time to try and dilute or amend it, as Valentine broke in with equal force, "On the contrary! I had a particular plan for her."

" _Have_ a plan for her Valentine. She is right here! Look at her!" The rising tenor of her voice shuddered with the beginning of a sob.

If anything, that sapped what remained of her husband's patience, seeing him press on with the harsh truths no one else dared tell her, "Not every child makes it to adulthood, you know that. It is more than common to lose a child-"

"But not my children!" She all but screeched in return, "I am the queen! My children are not anyone's!"

"That goes without saying. I have done all I can- paying a small fortune in doctor's fees and none of their remedies work. She is a sickly child, Jocelyn. She may well live, but it will always be as such."

For the first time ever, Jocelyn wanted to hit her husband. How could he sit there and provide her such solemn facts as if it were not the life of their own daughter they discussed? A small move caught in the corner of her eye, and Jocelyn was diverted from her horror-struck rising fury. She shot a fuming, tear blurred glance across to where the forgotten child had stiffened into place, wide eyed and seemingly alarmed to have been remembered.

That, in fact, proved to be the final proverbial straw. "Get that child _out_. Out of here right this instant!"

For a second Valentine froze, then with the sigh of the long suffering sprang up and began to usher the little boy out of the room, asking loudly as to the whereabouts of his nurses. Jocelyn meanwhile ducked her head down, kept biting back her sobs and clutched Amalia to her with renewed vigour, starting then to rock back and forth in her misery.

By the time Valentine returned to his vacated seat again, alone, he seemed angered further, "I appreciate that you are emotional, but there is no need to vent it on a child-"

"Is there not?" It was so universally unfair, that this child- who by many accounts should not have born- was the very epitome of health and happiness while her own precious little girl faded away faster than the summer roses at the first breath of autumn.

Valentine released another sigh, hesitated once more and then allowed himself to be baited, "What in the name of God does that mean?"

Jocelyn felt the vague hiccup of breath that followed her inability to swallow past her dry mouth. At first there was only the tolling of a dozen unfinished thoughts and questions in her mind: every happy glance Valentine had ever shot Celine and vice versa, his willingness to entertain the newlyweds, the insistence the duchess come to court. The demand that she be brought into his protection to give birth after her husband's arrest, the wild pursuit when she tried to leave, having the child seized from her still warm corpse and above all the insistence the boy be raised here. _Like one of his own._

She forced her eyes to dry themselves and stare her husband straight in his. She did not want to appear hysterical, oh no- she need be perfectly serious when she asked this question. "Tell me once and tell me true."

Valentine's exasperation peaked; "Jocelyn-"

"Is he your son?"

It was rare she caught Valentine entirely off guard- as a matter of interest Jocelyn could not think of another incident where she had managed to thrust him into such a confounded silence. His entire face had frozen, his eyes flared and his mouth fallen a little open. It took a long moment for him to compose himself long enough to splutter- "What?" She might have dropped the line of interrogation there and then, but she knew her spouse to be a convincing actor. Years of kingship taught one that if nothing else. So she seized in another breath so violently that her shoulders jerked and little Amalia, quite disregarded, gave a rare fidget.

She had endured months of holding the question back, of privately scouring the child's features for any similarity to her own son's, of pretending not to hear the whispers as to why the King was so happy to suffer the traitor's son. Better than suffer. He could have taken wardship of the boy and bundled him off to any other noble household, yet Valentine had chosen to disinherit the boy and then place him in the royal nursery. Finally, Jocelyn could take it no longer. She decided that even if she could not bear the truth she needed to know it. "Is he your bastard?"

The level tone stunned even herself, but Valentine was still trying to piece himself together after the last question, and quite unprepared for her to hound him on it. But, God help them all, hound him she would if that was what it took to get an honest answer out.

"Christ Almighty, Jocelyn. No. No. He's Stephen's son."

"Are you sure?" She snapped drily. She knew all too well that Valentine's instinctive response to many an accusation was dishonesty. "He hardly resembles him." And she had it on good authority that the Duchess's bed had not been one of the Duke's favourite haunts, though of course Valentine did not know she had knowledge of that.

"He is Stephen's son. I assure you."

"You do." It was too flat to be a question, yet there remained an imploring to elaborate.

Valentine shook his head disbelievingly, throwing his weight back in the seat and toying absentmindedly with the ring that never left his finger, that godforsaken sapphire that had always reminded his wife that the king was married to his country before he was her. He even had the audacity now to expel a rapid clatter of droll laughter, "You sound as if that is not the answer you wanted."

They were silent for a time then, Jocelyn not knowing what else to say and Valentine apparently not having anything further to say for himself. He was considering her now curiously, the brink of a decision obvious in the acuity to that gaze. At last he deemed her worthy of being party to the knowledge he was about to impart. "I shall prove it to you. Though things would be more convenient if he were my blood-"She gasped aloud at that, only to be ignored, "But alas- the boy is a Herondale through and through. Which is problematic by itself for obvious reasons, but why do you suppose I deny him an inheritance entirely? You think me prone to such acts of needless cruelty?"

Jocelyn dared not respond, though he was addressing her she could tell these were entirely rhetorical questions. "Because I wanted to make this boy mine Jocelyn. I wanted him utterly dependent on me. There is so much to be gained by having the very last of that great bloodline beg me for his supper, knowing that without my blessing and goodwill not so much as a crumb would pass his lips. I do not do so out of callousness, though I will not deny the sense of power gives me satisfaction. But it was God's will that Jonathan live and be delivered to my keeping. There is as much to be gained from his blood as it might cost us. Its value, ultimately, cannot be overestimated."

He smiled at her conspiratorially, though Jocelyn could not be certain she followed this at all. Until his eyes flicked downwards and settled on the babe dozing in her arms. "I would tie his bloodline to ours, my love." She stiffened, then lurched upwards into a straighter position and casting her eyes about the room desperately, as though suddenly waking to a strange surrounding. There was no one else there, of course, so eventually she had to return to Valentine. "You cannot mean it."

He shrugged, unrepentant. "It is my duty as a father to make plans for my daughter's future, is it not?"

"Not before she walks or talks," _Or until we can be sure she has a future_ a hideous little voice at the back of her mind added. Valentine might have heard it, she may have said it aloud, for his smile slipped off his face and he grew irritable again.

That was why Amalia's failing health bothered him so, not because it made him feel impotent but because Valentine so hated it when his plans were thwarted. Again, there came that urge to put her hands on him and beat this hateful streak out of him, but overriding her desire to do that was her longing to press Amalia closer to her chest and spirit her far away from here.

But what good would it do? What good would any of it do? She could rail at him all she wanted, but nothing would put strength into the too-small body of her darling daughter. None of it would keep Amalia's heart beating and her breaths flowing. The helplessness came crashing over Jocelyn all over again, making her loathe her own vitality.

Valentine however, had yet to move from the previous topic, "It is a gift we have been given. The last of the Herondales was always meant to be mine, after all it was I who did so much to bring him into the world. I will rid Idris of the old dynasty once and for all, not through destroying it but by utilising it. No one could ever challenge the right of me or my kin to rule." It brought him to life, the very notion; that vision of the bright future for every King of Idris to come, the one had single-handedly constructed.

Then the sole hurdle that brought him back to the present. Valentine looked again at the tiny heap of blankets which all but concealed the little girl from view, but though his eyes were on Amalia his thoughts were beyond her. "Perhaps not this time. Perhaps not little Amalia. But this is God's will and mine. So if not this daughter, we shall have another."

-00000000000000-

* * *

 _ **A/N: Thus the beginnings of Valentine's master plan is unveiled! If this is shoddier than usual its because I'm seizing what little free time I have to write and becoming that gif of Kermit the Frog at the typewriter :') But I would rather do this than essays. Also have started working on a cheeky side project that keeps distracting. Don't know if it will ever see the light of day but I will have to try and manage the infidelity :)**_


	21. Felix Culpa

_**A/N: Again beware the time skips. I only wrote it this way because I'm contrary af. :) It leaps between night and the following morning a few times, because why not reflect my perpetual confusion here :/**_

 _-00000000000000 **-**_

* * *

 _Felix Culpa_

 ** _2nd December 1536, St Mark's Cathedral, Alicante_**

It had been many years since Idris had a royal wedding. Their King's wedding had been a closeted affair, the recompense for which had come in the mighty revels that accompanied Valentine's coronation several months later. Still, that had been some thirty years ago, out of living memory for many of the kingdom's common folk. A royal wedding was monumental cause for celebration; not only were it a public holiday but it was also a chance to gawp shamelessly at the court parading about in all their finery.

And in their finery each and every one was this day, a King and his companions pinning the most costly broaches they owned to their breast and looping numerous necklaces and bracelets about their wives and daughters. The merry banners flapping in the blue, green and gold of Idris' national Angel clad flag were accompanied by blacks, silvers and more blues in the brightest of each hue that could be found. The gleaming coats of the horses that trotted past and the dazzle of their tack, the never ending stream of boldly dressed nobles and the many, many carriages, petal tossing girls and daringly attired dancers: it was a show of strength, a cry of defiance. This court may have been shaken to its core months ago but now they were a parade of the invincible. It was choreographed to perfection- for that alone Magnus Bane had every reason to smile. And smile he did, showcasing those remarkably pearly teeth of his with the dauntlessly flashing grin amidst the accompanying cascade of coins that clattered to the streets over the tempo of the cheerily gallant music, a welcome respite from the nipping winds and miserly winter drizzle that sparingly fell from the dreary grey of the skies.

Today was a celebration for the commons too. It was an opportunity to catch a glimpse of the many esteemed men and women who had otherwise been more myth than mortal, or in the very least a revered or feared name in lieu of flesh and bone. For the city wives and even the silk and jewel merchants it was a day of high fashion, to speculate as to what colours were in vogue, to measure for themselves whether the French styles were truly becoming the preferred way of dress for the women above some more modest European garments. For the menfolk it was a day of free-flowing wine and respite from their body and soul wearying work. Perhaps it was best of all for the pickpockets of Alicante, for whom the preoccupied crowds were a goldmine. It was easy to jostle through the packed streets cutting purses from those who were too tipsy or busy craning their necks in hope of a sight of the wedding party.

Of course, as was ever the way with any such climactic moment in the lives of their betters, tongues were wagging. It was difficult for them not to- until half a year ago the general populace had all but forgotten a Princess Clarissa existed and when she had been reintroduced as their glorious King's only living daughter there had been much speculation as to who would finally win her coveted hand.

King Valentine had caused something of a stir amongst the court and the commons when he had scorned all foreign beauties in favour of a native Idrisian rose, of who no one at all had ever heard. But this, this match had eclipsed his rebellious union long ago. The haste with which the whole event had been pieced together was one of the foremost of the controversies that had goodwives clucking in scandalised delight. This was not the first time Clarissa Morgenstern had been talked about, she had in the not so distant past incited mobs and dispelled them with equal ease. Word had it she were already a most extraordinary princess. And now _this_. Already rumours of an illicit affair were rife, talk of her having taken a lover scattered the mass who both huddled together for warmth and shoved ceaselessly at their surroundings for space. According to some, her ladies had been threatened on pain of death to disguise a swelling belly under that wedding gown with total success. Some even claimed knowledge that she were already married. Accounts varied in whether either or both of the previous claims were true, and varied even more fiercely on the bridegroom's involvement with one or the two.

The music and chatter reached a crescendo as the lady of the moment passed by at last on a snowy palfrey. Her face was pale as her mount's coat and if one looked closely enough they could see how her hands trembled on the reins she surrendered to a waiting attendant; her brother, resplendent in the deep green and trimmed gold of Idris' flag. She had smiled a little at the crowd, the expression seeming numbly strained and in truth she hardly seemed aware of the hundreds of people crammed into the streets and squares by the great Cathedral hollering her name, that of her father and in numerous cases, that of her husband to be. Her lips cracked open and a short phrase was uttered to her elder sibling, who was utterly unspeaking. She was divested with ease of the many furs she had been bundled in against the cold December air and the true splendour of the gown specially crafted for this woman on this day was revealed.

As had become popular amongst the ruling families of Christendom she wore cloth of gold to be wed, but it was the vibrancy of this gold that captured minds and caught breaths. It was like molten gold, crafted in exquisite patterns with the almost equally as costly cream fabrics, all embedded with pearls and yet more gold. To many gossip-monger's disappointment it clinched in effortlessly to her tiny waist and billowed out in skirts that must have weighed almost as much as their wearer. She wore no headdress today, the flame bright waves of hair falling free over her shoulders and back, some strands having been braided and drawn back, wound through with more shimmering mother of pearl and gilded thread. Rumour had it seeds of crystal were even woven into her creamy kirtle. With such attire jewellery was not at all necessary, the only piece selected for the occasion was a little necklace of thin golden chain studded with real diamond which hugged her throat, the bridal gift bestowed upon her by her father. A gilded collar, as far as the Princess was concerned. A reminder of whose hound she was, and who held the lead. Her little hand was soon swallowed by her brother's, and after some fussing over the lengthy train of the gown by a dark haired lady who lingered at the entrance, she was ready to proceed within.

The front of the cathedral sported a magnificent porch, a cry back to the centuries when the simplest of wedding pledges were made at the doorway of the church. In some of the most far flung parts of the kingdom it was still a living custom, to be married on the chapel threshold- but it was no longer the case with the nobility or indeed the majority of the people. Certainly not for the Princess, who would be bound in matrimony at the very altar of the cathedral which was packed with the court and gentry, many of whom had travelled far to witness the making of history.

And all eyes would be firmly on her, all ears firmly striving to hear each word of her vows. This was a momentous occasion, people could scarce believe that this were happening and all would want to be able to claim that they had witnessed it. The Princess braced herself as she passed under the shadow of the great church doorway, as though it were to war she strode instead of love.

Mayhap to her it was, for at any rate those slim young shoulders held more than merely the weight of her dress. One final fanfare to herald her, and then a great storm of rumbling feet as the congregation rose for her grand entrance. Outside the swarm of onlookers hummed and buzzed like bees on the winter streets, and there were plenty of comments to be made on the one glance shot behind her, one scan of those gathered, as though in the final moment she had just become aware of how many had turned out for her and her wedding. Whatever the backwards glance had meant, whoever she might have been looking for, one tug upon her sleeve from the Crown Prince and Clarissa Morgenstern was herded onwards.

She made no resistance, meekly making her way through the doors flung wide open, under the resolute stone figure of the evangelist that was the church's namesake and who guarded the arch over the entrance. Then it was onwards through the many prowling and lounging brass and gilt lions that filled the entryway. Focusing on the majesty of the crowned beasts must have given her some courage of her own, for some real conviction began to creep into the greater strides she took through the final set of wooden doors and onto the main aisle, into the eye of the court once more. St Mark may have urged resistance and firm faith in the midst of persecutions when he penned his gospel, but there would be no insurgence from the King's daughter here today. The play had been made and her new position on the grand board of politics and succession had been selected.

For better or worse; her future was sealed.

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

 ** _October 1536,_** ** _Princewater Palace, Alicante_**

Clary had heard of fortunes at court changing overnight, but she had thought that to be a figure of speech, not something that could in fact happen. Even bearing witness to just that happening to Jace, she had remained naive in the belief that fortunes could not fall just as quickly as they rose, deciding that certainly such a collapse would never happen to her. She had been wrong.

It seemed like a lifetime ago she had wished for her mother and her childhood at the convent: all of which had become a distant dream, a life that had belonged to another girl. Her mother had become equally as alien to her. She had begun to think that perhaps she might truly belong here, but just as she felt she had found her footing the terrain had changed completely. The rooms Clary had been occupying until now where no longer hers, a stipulation she had been informed of as she met a steward carrying her belongings out of them. She had been relegated to a smaller and comelier environment. It was a far cry from any sort of austerity, and she was not expected to subsist on solely bread and water exactly, but it was still shocking. Especially when her persistence in barging onwards into the rooms she still considered _hers_ was met with the apparition of none other than Jocelyn Morgenstern within. Her shock must have been palpable, for the face that had grown to truly mirror the one facing her now bore an equally uncanny reflection to her amazement.

"Mother?" The shrill enquiry bounced around the now virtually empty chamber.

"Clary- Lord, you have grown." For some reason the wistful comment fell like a slap on the Princess, her shoulders stiffened and her temper began to stir.

"I have had to."

The two women had stood frozen for a time, mentally circling one another. Unsure of whether a fight was worth it. Unsure of whether or not there was a fight to be had here. Jocelyn kept staring at her expectantly, awaiting an embrace or glad weeping. She was getting neither, Clary thought tartly as the astonishment wore off. She was so very weary of living according to another's expectations or even pretending to, and this woman had flung a lamb into a lion's den with no way of defence or escape. Her daughter had told her as much, at which point it was her mother's turn to allow her mouth to twinge into a bitter smile; "Oh I think you better prepared than you are inclined to give credence to."

The chilly reception had not melted into any warmer acquaintance, and one parent feeding her enigmatic promises was already one too many for Clary. She would not tolerate them from her mother as well. She would love to know what it was Jocelyn thought her so nicely shaped for. Her book learning was scowled upon by most of the men here and theirs were the only thoughts that mattered. None of the lessons her mother had been so zealously instilled in her daughter stood her in any kind of good stead; the workings of politics, history, languages and so forth were not womanly. Here women who could not execute dozens of the dances which were in vogue at the drop of a hat were not in high demand.

Yet Jocelyn had swept in the same side door she must have slipped out with not a word of warning and now sat by the King's side once more. From what Clary could glean no one knew which way was up at this court any longer. No one knew what had transpired behind the closed doors of Valentine's private chapel. Whatever that conversation had entailed Idris had a sovereign lady again. All would appear to be forgiven between the King and his miraculously reappeared wife.

There was no part of this which was not disconcerting; the way Valentine had calmly put the woman back on his arm, ordered crates full of her old dresses be returned to her chambers (they had all apparently been folded away for years with meticulous care). Then to add insult to injury, since Her Majesty had not a maid in attendance Clary was even to supply her entourage for her. Seething silently Clary had crisply ordered Maia and Julie to her mother's side. She had also packaged up those of her jewels which had been Jocelyn's (that is to say most of them) and sent them to her mother's wings in spite without so much as a note. Clary had half hoped they would be returned, but alas her next sighting of her favourite emeralds was of them back at her mother's throat. She ought to have expected that her borrowed clothes came with borrowed time.

The mourning period proved shorter lived than anticipated however, for the following day a diamond and sapphire necklace alongside a matching bracelet was dropped into her lap accompanied by a short curl of paper which read; "Since the fashions of previous decades have grown popular once more." It had been unsigned, but there was only one person who would have been attentive enough to have noticed her struggling to curb a scowl as her eyes refused to be drawn away from her queen's bedecked throat. Then that evening there had been a murmured comment as to how her throat had also been delightful naked, and just like that her bad temper lifted and the Duke of Broceland earned a subtle elbow to the ribs.

All playfulness aside, she had known that for all his cajoling and merriment Jace had grown dangerously serious. Much as she adored her new jewellery and loved how well it marked her fair complexion they came with the knowledge that their former owner had been the last Duchess of Broceland. Her mother had informed Clary with offhanded iciness that he was gifting her with what had been a wedding gift from the late Duke to his second bride.

So this was to be as much a way of keeping his cards pinned to the table as it were a goodwill gesture. Clary had still taken to wearing his promise and his proposal almost constantly since, and done all of it knowingly. This fresh, concrete defiance frightened her as much as it delighted her. The gentle graze of the jewels at her throat was a poignant reminder that she owed him an answer.

If only she could be certain of which to give.

Jace was not one for harrying her on the matter. On the few occasions they had managed to converse in relative privacy he remained reserved on the topic. Nonetheless, she knew without him having to verbalise it that his suggestion had been no hare-brained utterance he had grown to regret. He had meant it then, he meant it now. The perception sent exhilaration alongside trepidation crashing about in Clary's stomach.

She had only to say the word, give the signal- and he would marry her. Consequences be damned. He would spirit her away to France if need be. He could also throw himself on the King's mercy; Jace was a nobody no longer and once the scandal died down the court could be inclined to accept their union. If a few months exile was what she need suffer for a lifetime with Jace then that cross she could bear.

But her father was impossible to read, he had raised his wife up again in a heartbeat so what was to prevent him throwing his daughter down twice as quick? He was as changeable as the seas, more than capable of whipping from calm to a cyclone before anyone was aware that the winds of his mood had blown another direction.

Had her mother not have returned Clary was certain that she would not have found the courage. Once it became clear that the portly ambassador from Lorraine was fighting for a lost cause the Princess had plenty of time to reflect on what aspect of her mother's grand return hurt the most. Her first bouts of homesick tears had been shed for a longing for her mother's comforts- now that she were here Jocelyn offered the very opposite of that. She had not thought to come back when Clary was in danger before, thus she had to deduce the peril was not yet past.

Clary may have faced down rebel hoards in the last few weeks, but she had never once considered herself especially daring. However, pre-emptive strikes ran in the family, although what her family might do when this strike was revealed... Clary wonders if she would be permitted to still call herself family to the King. What she now steeled herself to do ought to have been unthinkable- it were so inconceivable that the Princess found it difficult to believe she had it in her.

However, the last time she had managed to sidle up to Jace at a tennis match she could feel the weight of her mother's stare on the two of them, could have sworn she saw Jocelyn's eyes brighten like a spark shooting from rubbed flints as she brushed her sleeve along Jace's. Her mother knew her better than anyone, always had and always would. It had taken minutes of the two of them being in the same room for the queen to gather the extent of the situation. All that had remained was a few intense days of waiting to see what she might say to Valentine of it.

It would seem that she had very little to say if anything at all. Good fortune was thin on the ground in her world these days and Clary was not prepared to let this rare prospect of luck pass her by.

Nonetheless her steps sounded unforgivably loud as she crept out of the small antechamber she closeted herself in for prayer now. Each fell like a crack of thunder and she winced as the snick of the door she drew shut after her reverberated in the quiet of her outer chamber.

Reliably, Rebecca had seized the opportunity to make herself scarce and pray in her own, hidden fashion, while Isabelle was snoring softly to herself by the fire, chin propped up in her hand and head lolling against the back of the seat. In a time when men were filled with a religious fervour so great they would tear one another apart for the denial of the smallest part of the sacred mysteries, it was strangely relieving to find Isabelle's apathy unchecked. She had no doubt that her friend had some vestige of belief, but Isabelle was the sort of Christian who lived a practical faith. She could see the good in works of charity and striving to be a more Christ-like individual, whereas the ins and outs of theology bored her. She saw no use in it, and was fond of declaring that their saviour had entertained common fishermen and not scholars, so for Him and consequently her faith and compassion were enough. It was just as well Izzy had no lofty sense of understanding the scriptures and no desire to cultivate one, since the last thing a woman ought to do in this world was question anything.

Drawing her cloak around her with as little rustling as possible Clary had to nip at the inside of her lips to quell a giggle as she contemplated what the conclave of cardinals might make of Izzy. She could picture all too clearly her friend whisking amongst them, snatching away their jewels, criticising their robes and telling them in no uncertain terms that their meetings were devoted to sacramental nonsense and they had bigger things to worry about. The Princess felt a sudden flash of certainty that she would be more successful than Martin Luther had in getting the Vatican to listen. Partly to distract herself from the tension and peril that lay in what she was on the cusp of doing, Clary amused herself thoroughly by imagining Isabelle Lightwood as the face of the reformation even as she made for the servants steps.

Trudging tentatively downwards Clary was grateful for her velvet slippers; for all the hushed scuffling against stone at least there were no wooden heels to betray her. To ground herself somewhat she tucked her fingers into the folds and pockets of her cloak, inevitably letting their tip brush against the warm metal circle within. A ring.

It had not been particularly difficult to procure. Most of the jewellers in the city were still recovering from their stores having been sacked by the traitorous rabble, so at the merest hint she a collection to replenish a torrent of silver and goldsmiths were soon requesting an audience to present their wares. This particular one -plain gold with a single opal embedded- had not been difficult to slip amongst her purchases. She liked it best because it was beautiful in its subtlety, the kind of ring it would be easy to pass over at first glance, but when held to the light the stone illuminated a myriad of rainbows and patterns, multiple veins of glimmering colour trailing across the surface. The lover of art and painting that still slumbered within her had not been able to resist.

An unconventional ring to seal an unconventional deal.

Clary was also beginning to feel she had at last mastered the art of navigating the underbelly of this great palace, her nerves spiking as she emerged at the end of the hallway that led to deserted chapel royal. The bronze hinges glinted in the rimmed torchlight, giving the appearance of winking a signal that they shared in her conspiracy. If that fancy was all she had to encourage her Clary may well have halted her feet and the matter there and then, but the distinctly male hooded figure lingering in the doorway provided a far more substantial form of reassurance. She had known without receiving a response Jace would be waiting for her here.

She imagined the joy on his face when she told him yes, yes she would. That she wanted him. It may not be tonight: for starters they would have to find a priest; could any of the King's clerics be persuaded to do it in secret? Then there was the minor matter of witnesses- she would have to convince Simon, possibly Isabelle. Clary could think of no one else she might coerce into it. But all these were matters for the not so distant future. First of all she had to tell the groom.

Her feet skipped and skidded onward, almost in time to the hammering of heart. The force of its beating under the clenched fist that held the corners of her cloak together made Clary imagine it knew damn well that for once it held the reins of power over her. Her other hand closed properly around the ring in her pocket, tightly, as she pulled herself and the entirety of her courage together. There was no point in pausing, no point in allowing a second of hesitation for it was too late to go back now. All of these thoughts whipped around her head like fallen leaves plucked from the ground and tossed around in a sudden gale, as she hurried onward, onward, focusing only on closing that distance.

At the last minute a wriggling doubt thrashed to get to the forefront of her mind, why did Jace not turn? She was making no effort to muffle her approach anymore, he had to be aware of her arrival- She finally slid to stillness by the doorway and reached for him, though all of a sudden every instinct she had bellowed at her to recoil and flee. She felt the colour drain out of her face as her hand closed on his arm and he turned to her at last and Clary found herself staring into her father's face.

 _-000000000000-_

* * *

"What I cannot for the life of me understand is why _we_ have to move." Isabelle grumbled, somehow managing to be both sullen and charming at once. Simon at last won his present battle and secured the buckle on the bulging case before him and gratefully rising. While he bounced his weight from one leg to the other and felt the tingling surge of feeling flood back into his lower limbs, he could not help but smile at her pout. "That is the only thing I believe I do understand in all this."

Izzy's frown deepened as she continued to cram yet another load of Clary's books into a similar case with impatient vigour. "It is unjust. Why need we hawk all of our possessions across the palace when we were in residence here first."

Simon moved to assist her as best he could, prising a book of Spanish translations out of her fingers. He had meant to free the book from any further rough handling that would bring down the wrath of their Princess upon his sweetheart. If that was what Isabelle were. Either way, he felt a frown of his own burrow lines across his forehead as he realised the tongue the manuscript advocated. It was not one of Clary's strongest languages, she had only a handle of the most basic phrases and evidently sought to enhance her ability.

Simon wished she would not. It was not the language itself that unnerved him, but the connotations of it. Spain had a great deal to answer for as far as the treatment of his people were concerned, not that they ever would. He was suddenly struck by the irony of the two pieces he now found in his hand, having instinctively relieved Isabelle of another: a prayer book. So here he was- a Jew caught between Spanish and Christian prayers. He need not fear the Inquisition- he were it. Chortling ruefully Simon dropped them back onto the boxed pile as though they had suddenly exhibited symptoms of the sweating sickness and squashed them downwards with all the strength he had. The sound of protesting pages being crumpled together was finer music in that moment than his lute could have produced.

Isabelle raised one of her exquisitely shaped brows but it was her first question Simon chose to respond to; "I think you will find that the queen was indeed here first."

It was not likely to get any less strange in the immediate future, referring to Jocelyn as such. To him she was much a second mother; a much sharper, more demanding and judgemental mother, perhaps. More like a governess, if Simon had been well enough born to have had one. Nonetheless, she had been content to be called "my lady" or simply "madam" in all the years Simon had known her. Isabelle meanwhile was tutting, resuming her ill-tempered flitting about the chamber, sounding and looking a little like a demented chicken in a coop. "Of course. Then why not have her own ladies prepare them for her?" She paused in her snatching up some bottles of rose water and gasped theatrically- "Oh yes- she has none."

"Well, we are members of Clary's household and these are Clary's things..." Simon trailed off his injection of reason, seeing that it would only inflame her further. Isabelle was not about to launch any attempts to resign herself to their afternoon duties.

Technically speaking these were only her allotted tasks. Much as Isabelle might dislike them they had been issued by the queen herself. Clary herself had yet to appear. Simon was more confused than usual; he should think Jocelyn's return was a good thing for his friend, in fact he had assumed it were. He knew how frightened Clary had been when she had first arrived here, and how homesick. Now surely with her mother back she had at last a real ally in the lion's den. He had expected her to welcome her mother's reinstating and to gladly relinquish her role as first lady.

It suddenly struck Simon that the one person who may know Clary's mind on the matter was before him and not himself.

These days she saw far more of Izzy than she did him, he had to admit that there had grown a distance between he and Clary that had never existed before. How could there not? Not only was there a physical distance but were once she had hours free for him and he alone now Clary was lucky to be able to spare a dozen minutes to speak with him. And what they did speak of... when they had just been a small boy and a girl whose common interests were easily found in the form of an expedition to the nearby creek to see if the frogspawn had hatched, currently it was more trying to find even ground between them. Now Clary's mind was full of state dinners and playing one faction against the other and indeed the Duke of Broceland (thoughts Simon was happy for her to keep to herself.) Not that there were any hard feelings betwixt them- the leisure time Clary now gave her Jace Simon spent with Isabelle. Clary lived in a world of women now, and naturally her foremost companion and confidant should be woman. So he opted to quiz Izzy on her now then, though having to admit he needed help in reading and understanding Clary caused more than a little discomfort. At his stilted and envious line of enquiry Isabelle ceased her folding of some furs- a chore to which she leant the most delicacy he'd seen yet. "How would all in her mind be well? There never was any sure constancy at court, but even I am struggling to comprehend what her mother's presence here means, if it bodes well for her or not."

"How could it not? Jocelyn is her mother. She has always wanted the best for Clary, always pushed for Clary to be her very best-"

Isabelle laughed dully and without mirth, "I did get the impression Her Majesty ruled Clary's childhood with more than a little tyranny."

Simon tried to leap to Jocelyn's defence, but Isabelle sliced through his hastily driven charge with ease, "Clary has spoken to me of the strict routines- harsh even from the hour at which Clary was instructed to rise, as each minute of the day was filled. Endless lessons, it seems Clary could never know enough or do enough to impress her Mother into relenting. Even my mother was never so domineering." She appraised Simon now keenly, and was speaking with quiet speculation- "You must have noticed by now that Clary is exceptionally learned for a girl."

Simon shrugged- "I was under the impression that all noble girls were educated thus."

Izzy shook her refusal vehemently, "She had the education of a prince. As it happens, she had an upbringing not altogether dissimilar from our Prince. She and Jonathan were raised in different ways by different people- yet it was very much the same."

Simon mirrored her shaking head with perplexity, "Izzy, I know not what you are trying to say."

Isabelle's fingers skated repetitively over the mound of sables she had gathered, "Nor do I. Not particularly. It has just struck me that Clary and Jonathan are a mirror's image of each other just as much as Jace and Jonathan. Players on opposite sides no doubt- but at the same game. No... not players. Pieces."

Simon was shocked at how troubled she appeared, rubbing the soft fur between her fingertips with such agitation that he felt the need to hasten to where she stood and grasp at the fingers to stop the motion. "Peace, Izzy." She raised her eyes to his slowly, the glimmer of true agitation still there. "Speak to me of you" Simon urged, marvelling that they were close enough for him to feel the warm wisp of her breath across his cheeks, "What has you so distressed?"

"I am not distressed," Isabelle protested, the indignant denial allowing some of her old humour to leak through and seal the cracks- bricks and mortar. "Merely.. irritated. Alec is perpetually in the city these days and he will not tell me why and as for Jace..." Her eyelashes flickered as she blinked and sighed, taking a decisive step backwards and releasing herself from Simon's hold. She massaged at her wrists and stared off into the distance- "The one resounding question I have on the queen's return is why now? Clary was on the cusp of a betrothal before, then we were all under siege by a rebel army and still she made no move. Now all of a sudden she spends over four hours locked in the King's chapel alone with him and when she emerges she is our queen again? She is to return precisely to the way she was, to be treated with every courtesy and honour like she never left? There has only been one great change at this court since then. Jace being given his birthright and father's title." Isabelle's eyes slid back to his with no great hurry, but held the kind of contemplative gravity Simon had never associated with her before- "Clary is the one who came to that epiphany and shared it with me in the hope that I could get it to Alec and he could watch over Jace in the ways only he can. Except- She rolled her eyes and let her voice spike with irritation once more- "it would seem my darling brother has much better, mysterious things to do."

Simon closed the gap once more and took hold of her shoulders. This was not the first time Isabelle had backed away from him of late, or brushed him aside. It was starting to unnerve him. Which was not a good sign at all, since he and Isabelle were strictly to be one another's distractions and nothing more. If the novelty of their dalliance had worn off for her... Truth be told, Simon was not prepared to let that happen just yet. Instead he opted to keep the passion alive. He needed to be more spontaneous, more dangerous, Eric had assured him. So be it. He did not think you could get any more dangerous than an embrace in the Princess's- now the Queen's- bedchamber when the fellow ladies and servants who had left them alone with rolled eyes could walk in at any moment, or worse, one of the noble ladies in question.

"Then we ought to find ourselves some better occupation." He spared the only slightly ajar door one last look then drew her close. After a brief sway of reluctance Isabelle allowed herself to be pulled in until her nose brushed his. She hummed in agreement after a moment's pause, "Fretting means frowning and frowning means premature wrinkles. I should very much like to dwell on something else."

With that, they settled it.

Or at least, attempted to. No sooner had their lips touched than the bang of the door handle colliding with wall plaster interrupted them. The two lurched apart, casting about for who would have opened the door with such force. Fortunately or unfortunately as the case may prove to be, it was not the queen who was darkening the doorway, but Alec Lightwood. Simon had come to appreciate that while Alec usually hid his emotions as well as the Jews had concealed the Ark of Covenant, on the odd occasion he did allow them to come to light it was only so that he might look as if he had just discovered that the apocalypse was upon them. He looked as such now, a panic that not even the present position of his sister was sufficient to distract him from. "Isabelle, Jesus," was all that was said on the topic.

"My name is Simon, actually" the unaddressed party corrected, realising too late that was unforgivably blasphemous. At least he went to the stake with a sense of humour. However, not even in his moment of crisis was he worthy of any attention.

"What is it?" Isabelle enquired irritably of her sibling. Alec swept his cap off his head and allowed his chest to heave several times as he caught his breath, eyes skirting the entire room as if he had misplaced something that may be there. "Tell me you have seen Jace."

"Seen Jace?" Isabelle's annoyance spiralled, then her expression cooled with realisation, "Not of late. Not today, now I think of it. Why? What has he done now?"

Alec laughed, sharply hysterical before he offered a shrug of surrender. "That is what I would know. I just returned from the city, but no one has seen him anywhere today."

"Did you try his chambers?"

Alec shot her the kind of look that can only be exchanged between siblings, expressing unspeakable exasperation. "Yes. Oddly enough that was my first port of call."

The biting sarcasm rather impressed Simon, but he had not very long to appreciate it. "He is not with the Princess?"

"No," Isabelle shook her head, thinking furiously.

Alec swallowed, dropping his voice and stepping close enough to grasp Isabelle by the arms and stare into her face, "Izzy, have you seen Clary at all today?"

Isabelle's mouth hardened into a firm line. She could not answer him, Simon comprehended as the silence stretched on too long. He did it for her. Clearing his throat awkwardly he admitted, "We were waylaid by the queen as we tried to reach Clary's apartments today. She sent us here and gave us tasks that would take all day. Apparently Clary has a cold and taken to bed."

For the first time Alec looked him in the eye and spoke directly to Simon, "Has anyone in her household laid eyes on the Princess this day?"

Simon shuffled uncomfortably and shrugged, appalled that none of this had occurred to him sooner. He was supposed to be Clary's closest friend, her brother, yet he had not taken his banishing from her rooms as suspicious, nor the prohibition from seeing her. He had gone too happily with Isabelle, rather than insisting if Clary were ill she would want his company. Too trusting of Jocelyn, without accepting that he was no longer seven years old and the woman's word no longer ought to or should be taken as gospel.

And if no one had seen Clary today what was to say she was even still in the palace. She was not a stupid or flighty girl by any stretch of the imagination, but that abominable Frenchman, he could well have persuaded her to do something immeasurably stupid.

"You cannot think... not even Jace would be so foolish-"Isabelle began, struggling to articulate her thoughts.

"As to run away with her? Why not. The pair of them are old romantics are they not? And this is their fairy-tale. Of course they would think it fitting." He grew more and more agitated with each passing word, while Isabelle reddened and looked increasingly guilty.

Simon sidled closer to hiss under his breath "You encouraged it?" While Alec may not have truly heard him he could at least guess as to the gist of the conversation, for his stare bored into his sister more intently.

"No" Izzy snapped back in a whisper, "At least not directly. I did fall asleep on duty last night."

"Isabelle!"

Alec set himself to launch into a tirade, but Izzy cut him off, "Before you heap the entirety of the blame on me perhaps you should contemplate wherever it was _you_ were last night." She shucked his hands off her and raced on, "I know not where it is you disappear to Alec, and you do not tell me but that I can manage, trusting in you and loving you as I do. What I will not do is sit back and let you berate me for being distracted as though you are not. If Jace is gone then it is because you have not been here for him. You have not listened, you have not pressed him to speak, not really. "

"I won't ask him questions I myself could not answer were they posed in reverse" Alec shot back, face flooding with colour again, but largely from embarrassment rather than temper. He reined himself in once more almost immediately, tucking away all traces of emotion and the remaining evidence of his outburst.

"We do not have time for this." He stated briskly, snatching away any chance for Isabelle to respond. The possibility of Simon having an input was not to be entertained. "We need to find out what is happening." He paused and rubbed a hand over his face with bewildered dread, "Or what has already occurred."

 _-0000000000000-_

* * *

Jace had experienced the displeasure of many moments of apparent helplessness in the past, but all of them were dwarfed in comparison to the trifle he found himself in now. Quite literally he had naught to do but twiddle his own thumbs, swiping the pad of one thumb over the joint jutting out at the base of the other and doing his utmost to avoid eye contact with the queen. Simply all sensations of gut wrenching powerlessness in the past now felt prickling of annoyance.

He kept his mind focused on the knee that was not inclined to stop bouncing up and down on the spot. It was supposed to work off some of his agitation, but at the moment it served only to accentuate how chained he was to the spot. Not physically, of which he supposed he ought to be thankful, but the grim expression of Jocelyn Morgenstern opposite him and her firm silence left him in no doubt as to how far his misdemeanours of late had been revealed.

The queen looked unnervingly like her daughter, until now Jace had presupposed that those who swore to Clary being her very picture had merely been saying that politely, to fill an otherwise fraught silence or in the hope of currying some kind of familiarity with the young royal. Now he saw otherwise with his own eyes. He could also tell, in the vague, hasty sweep of the lady's hard expression he chanced, that she was not at all ignorant of what she detained him from tonight. He had so easily mistook her for Clary when he had come upon her in the chapel some hour previous, by the time he had realised the calamity of that error she had laid a light yet firm hand on him and steered him away from the scene. Nothing more than the most basic, "with me, Your Grace" had been exchanged since, and now he found himself, most ironically, back where he had started.

He had taken his seat in the queen's parlour with the same respect for the silence that his companion displayed and uneasy though he was to find himself sat across this table from a lady who wasn't Clary, he had not uttered a word. This was preferable to the cardinal, he urged himself to consider. Despite that, this entire tableau was perhaps more unsettling than the prospect of another interrogation. Jace knew better than to think he would twist his way out of the noose a second time, but he still found his thoughts floundering around uselessly as they tried to pick out what all of this may signify. No guards, no arrest and yet he was far from free to go.

He needed no locked doors to feel keenly that there would be no quick escape from this, even as the queen's frozen figure seemed disinclined to pay attention to anything other than the clasped hands in her lap and the occasional sideways glance to where the closest clock ticked by. Already he had summoned and discarded several lines of excuse making, telling himself that there was no use in it when he knew not what he was about to be charged with. Well, perhaps that was not strictly true, but he was ignorant as to how it was going to be _phrased._ His fingers twitched toward his pocket, where the crinkle of paper Helen had dropped into his lap at dinner was still buried. There was no way in hell they could possibly know the extent of it. Clary was not about to tell anyone, of that he could be certain. The woman had a will of iron and beyond that, he had grown to appreciate she had thicker skin than may at first be presumed. Jace had watched her bounce back from the several catastrophes now, he prayed this was not one too far.

The rumble of approaching footsteps, a simple, brief order from beyond and then the door creaked open to see Valentine enter. He closed it behind him again with a brisk push and then sauntered to the where a jug of wine awaited, the trickle and splash of falling liquid filled the room as though it were a cascade of a waterfall. Unconcerned as Valentine may appear, Jace was far from fooled, and it was becoming a Herculean labour to hold himself still in his seat and appear equally as nonchalant.

Clearly his consort was out of practice when it came to Valentine's long games, either that or she had long since run out of patience with them, "Where is Clary?" she demanded. Valentine drew a long drink and made no haste to reply. "Where is my daughter?" Jocelyn demanded next, all pretences of calm disinterest shattered as she clenched the arm of her chair- "We agreed-"

"Hush, my love." Jace wondered if there was some hidden sarcasm in that concluding sweet nothing. He decided he did not care, for he wanted the queen's question answered as dearly as she did. The King hardly blinked, however, before continuing, "Our daughter has been safely restored to her chambers." At last his focus fell upon Jace, "We shall return to her when we have finished here."

"Should I not-"

"You shall stay here, Jocelyn. I shall require a witness."

Jace doubted if the King could have said anything less comforting in that moment, as his unease strengthened yet further. What Valentine said next however proved that assumption to be wrong. "Now, Jonathan," The King settled himself into the chair facing opposite Jace's, "I expect it is high time we discussed your relationship with my daughter."

Wildly, he contemplated playing this the way the Jace of a few months ago might have; _What relationship sire?_ But he sensed they were far beyond that. Everyone in this room knew he was in love with Clary, if he guessed correctly then Valentine had known it for even longer than he had himself. Hence all the favours showered on his embassy; not because Valentine had ever been particularly attracted to a French marriage, but because he liked Clary keeping the then ambassador in her company.

The contemplation of past titles in turn made Jace wonder if he was about to go down in history as the man who had held the shortest ever dukedom.

With that thought Jace realised that the only scenario he could not live with, the only crime he could not absolve himself of- which Clary would never forgive- was not staging one final battle. Either way, it would be worth it. Besides, he had not sinned in deed. There was no treasonous act he had committed; in that moment Jace was almost glad that he had stopped where he had that night in his bedchamber. So, he cleared his throat and started to speak. "By all means Your Majesty."

With a soft swish of fine fabric, the King crossed his legs and reclined on the chair beside his wife. Jocelyn was on the edge of her sat more than figuratively, a handful of her skirts still clutched in her right hand. She had frozen just as she had made to rise, now her eyes flickered between the two men and the faraway door. Unbidden her phrasing _"my daughter"_ took centre stage in Jace's mind. Mayhap Jocelyn was the one he needed to sway here- but no. The women would likely be even tougher to melt than Valentine, he could remember her icy scorn and distaste from his childhood well enough. Moreover, he knew that Valentine was the sort of man who, if you sought one of his possessions, would make you prise it from his stiff, dead hands. And Clary was, in the eyes of the law as well as the King's, very much her father's property. Jocelyn could protest it all she wanted, Jace sensed she would, but she could not actively do anything to stop it. Still, Jace had to get 'it' in motion first.

The King sipped his drink again, waiting. His expression was as clear to read as a line of print, he did not need to sully the atmosphere by being verbally direct. _What do you want_?

"Sire, I would present another suit for the Princess's hand."

"Please, do so."

"The advantage of a match outside these borders are plain to see. But I urge Your Majesty to consider the convenience of an Idrisian marriage. Foreign rulers can be fickle, and faithless. They are not your subjects- they are not required to do your bidding. There you are reliant on good faith. But-" He allowed the snide edge of a smirk to rise, eyes travelling to the fireplace, seeing in his mind books rather than logs being eaten by the flames- "We no longer live in an age of blind faith. Would it not better to have a lord whose obedience you could be sure of, whose door you could be at in several days? A local nobleman would not require the dowry of an Emperor either, so it would be the economical choice. Beyond that, he would not be dragging you into any conflicts abroad either. There would no risk of Idris getting involved in someone else's wars- the only reward of which would be whatever measly crumbs Spain or France saw fit to throw us. It would conserve lives as well as coin-" He ceased to draw breath before proceeding, only to be curtailed by Valentine.

"I know better than any man you can plead a case. That is not what I need you to prove."

Jace released a shuddering breath, clenching the armrests and feeling a bunching frustration seize his muscles, "Then what proof? Tell me and I will give it, or show it. Or perish in the attempt. I will do anything, Majesty."

"Anything?"

With a quiet scoff Jace accepted his fate. For her he would sell his soul if need be. It was already too blemished to be of use to anyone other than Valentine Morgenstern anyway.

"Anything," he confirmed.

But Valentine should hate to be predictable; "Tell me Jonathan, do you love her?"

Surprisingly it was the queen who answered, "Would it matter if he did not?"

Jace tensed, utterly thrown. Both by the words she had just spoken and their spiteful, bitter tone.

Valentine smiled, humourlessly. He cast his wife a mere sideways glance before swivelling his head back to Jace. "I love her." He set his jaw and lifted his chin- there was no point in being half-damned, now was there? "More than my own life."

Valentine snickered, indifferent to the other parties' inability to grasp the joke. He did turn to the unsmiling Jocelyn, a definite silent 'I told you so' delivered. Then all mirth evaporated, "A valiant effort, my boy. But you always were too soft and sentimental. Too often are you ruled by your heart, no matter how well you think you screen it with pretence at cunning or ambition. That will never do. My daughter needs a husband who will break her in and teach her to bend her will to his, not one who will indulge her out of love."

From the corner of his eye Jace glimpsed Jocelyn's brows sloping to a frown, but paid it no heed. His world was begin to collapse around him. He felt crushing desperation and defeat clenching in his stomach, fighting to keep from surrendering to that despondency. Instead, he swerved into the panic and grabbed for his final, lone straw:

"My lord, you promised me a debt." Breathlessly grave he clenched his hands together and lowered himself to a solemn pleading. "One gift, were it in your power to grant would be mine."

The queen looked to her husband in puzzlement, Valentine did not remove his eyes from Jace. "I ask it now. Please God, grant me your daughter's hand. You know you will not find a more faithful son in marriage." _Or one who will start the match indebted to you and not demand twice Clary's weight in gold in the very least as a dowry._

Just like that, Valentine loosed a smile of pure satisfaction. His wife laughed quietly to herself, shaking her head in amused disbelief. Because Jace had done exactly as the King wanted, the understanding resounded somewhere in his spinning head, wasted that wish on something Valentine had been inclined to give him anyway. Valentine took particular delight in experimenting with just how far he could push a man and still have him snap and bounce back to where was convenient for the King. At that time, Jace could not find it in him to care. Not when his transgressions with Clary may actually bear reward.

As Valentine slowly and smugly extended his hand to the dumbfounded young man before him, Jace thought that if this was the price of a fall from grace he should do it more often.

 _-0000000000000-_

* * *

Filling the atmosphere as much with disbelief as the dense silence, Clary contemplated the misting of her breath before her and wondered if she was to be left here to freeze to death. An hour ago she might have imagined that her fury was such that her very breath smoked, but whatever reserves of anger she had been using to sustain herself had been swamped by fear and dread long since. If she were to be honest, she were not surprised enough to feel indignant. She had seen all of this coming, perhaps not in this sequence of events- but for every sin there came a reckoning. The dark, quiet chill of the rooms was somehow placating, it was nice in a way to have the time and peace to count her breaths and with them her thoughts. If she wanted, she could have risen from the floor and gone to the fireplace, a few embers still lurked there. She could see the minor reddish glow from here, but much as it may have made a poignant image for her to be crouched over the dying heat she felt immensely weary and could not bear to stir herself. Besides Clary, felt she made a perfectly good image of despondence as she was, slumped against the leg of the chair she had shunned, head skimming the bottom of the table top.

The last thing she wanted was to move. If anything, unbearable though this waiting was it was still preferable to anything the future may hold for her. With what was likely to be on the horizon when the sun rose she found herself happy for this night to go on forever and ever; she could keep this vigil for eternity if need be.

She was so weary. How long had she been here? Her father had simply instructed her to wait. That could have been hours ago. It most definitely felt it. The interior of the room had been dark when she had arrived but as far as she could see beyond the nearest window pane was pure darkness too. No hint of a dawn.

Her eyes were heavy and the feeling had been crushed from her legs by the rest of her weight courtesy of the way she were sitting, but moving seemed too great an effort. She bore it as far as she could, recognising that her father was not returning anytime soon. Perhaps no one was coming, ever. That would not be so terrible, her aching and tired mind proposed, since whatever tomorrow brought was sure to be detrimental. She had felt the doom advancing for some time now, yet as it seemed imminent the real battle proved to be staying alert. Clary could see the merit in trying to form a plan of sorts but it was what she could not see happening that disturbed her more.

There was no way that Jace would get to walk away from this, no matter how clever he was. In fact knowing Jace, he would not be inclined towards a witty evasion, not anymore. Had he not made himself perfectly clear? He was finished with the creeping around and lying. If that were to be the case then she did not want an escape from this either. She would take whatever came, whether that were disgrace or worse...

At some point her eyes must have slid shut for the next she knew she were jerking awake again, her already stiff and sore muscles protesting the tension that seized them with her startled awakening. Clary blinked her still tired eyes several times, recollecting piece by piece where she was and why. She clenched and unclenched her numb fingers, rubbing at her neck briefly before tucking them under the mountain of her skirts. Even that slight move sent spasms of icy pain through her cramped limbs. Wincing, Clary wondered how long she had dozed for. Not long, it cannot have been. Then she paused to reconsider that assessment as she heard the unmistakable croak of a cockerel nearby.

She drew in several long breaths to try and chase away her disorientation. She could have foreseen the King leaving her here all night but she had expected her mother to come for her by now. Jocelyn detested the King, besides, she had not betrayed Clary before even knowing of her love for Jace. Or had she? Clary wondered if her mother had not turned traitor after all. Valentine halting her tryst tonight had not been by chance. He knew where would be and why.

In spite of the pain that rippled through her neck with the movement the Princess dejectedly let her head loll back to its resting place. It was clearly to be a long night and she ought to store her strength for the trials to come by getting whatever sleep she could. If only her thoughts could be silenced. The cockerel outside crowed again and Clary found she had been straining to hear it.

What was taking them so long? There was not so much to their relationship that it would take all night for Jace to divulge. Her solitude at the present moment assured her that he was being grilled first instead. She had been wrong, Clary feared, scrunching up her stinging eyes. Jace must have denied her after all.

Stubbornly she resisted sleep as best she could. She had to think- keep alert. It was growing impossible. Unbidden, her mind leapt back to the ring she had concealed. Remembering it she was suddenly overpowered by the urge to laugh. To think she had ever believed she might steer the course of her fate. Evade the inevitable. Clary would be here for as long as her father willed it; he could starve her to death if he wanted, the yowling hunger in the pit of her stomach declared. Not even her mother could stop him, for Jocelyn had yielded her claim to Clary the second she had let her follow Luke out of the convent gates. If she had ever truly had possession of her daughter.

Clary had been born for a purpose, a purpose for her father alone to decide. Her great misfortune was being his only daughter; there was no chance he might forget or forgive her for resisting his control. The poison chalice was solely hers to drain. All that was required of Clary was for her to play the meek lamb and do as her lord directed. Well, she had rather failed at that.

The hysteria in her barely suppressed laughter built, but Clary dared not release any of it for she knew if she did it would too soon splinter to tears. Contemplation was too painful and the possibility of resistance too futile so instead, she let her traitorous eyes shut...

"Clarissa," The stern disapproval bolted her awake so quickly that Clary's entire body jerked upwards and her head collided with the corner of the table top. As the sharp, pounding pain of that subsided she struggled to come to terms with the ashy blue-grey light of the chamber now.

For the second occasion in a too short space of time Clary found herself confusedly blinking up at her father. He was annoyed, she noticed, likely that she had missed his grand entrance. Or that she had not spent the entirety of the night writhing about in trepidation, shirking from the thought of what was to come. Well, she had resigned herself to resignation. A small smile dance along her lips at the curious turn of phrase she had just conjured to herself, and Clary realised too late if anything that put Valentine's nose a little further out of joint. She sincerely hoped her debauchery had kept him out of bed all night, though she could tell his hair had been recently combed and his beard just trimmed. No, he had decided what to do with her hours ago.

That observation quenched any amusement she harboured and saw her force an unsteady rise. Her legs barked irritably as she bade then hold her and she came to terms with her back having quite fallen out with her as she met her father's gaze. "Majesty?" Her mouth was dreadfully dry and her voice subsequently hoarse.

"Clarissa," he repeated, gaze sliding up and down her with distaste.

"Forgive my appearance. Had I known when to expect you I would have readied myself."

Rather than sparking his temper that remark caught the King's amusement. She would not easily rile him today. No, the shine in those black eyes now was not soon to be dulled. Valentine was very, very pleased with himself at the moment.

"We shall see how long that spirit lasts in marriage. We have found the ideal husband for you at last."

Stunned, Clary had no reply, at which the smile grew. "You see? You are learning. I have realised that a disobedient girl like yourself could be sent to no foreign court. You would only disgrace me." He declared it all with snide pleasure. Reaching for her elbow and seizing it up, the King turned her none too gently around until she was at his side. Then he began to march her toward the door. Still, Clary would not satisfy him to voice as much as a squeak of protest.

"We will keep you here, we think. Where an eye can be kept on you."

Clary stayed stonily mute, though dragged her heels as much as she could. None of this made sense. Her father kept yanking on her arm, "Come now, Clarissa, your betrothed awaits." He pushed the door to her outer chamber, the ease with which it swung outwards mocking her earlier plight. Despite what she had anticipated, the chamber beyond was far from empty.

She took account of her rather wan mother and the reliably congested Pangborn, but then quite forgot their presence as she recognised the third person waiting. Jace glanced up with alarm as she entered, dragged along limply by her arm like a doll. The three were crowded around a document, she noticed as Valentine continued hauling her over to the group. At last he released his hold, the return of blood flow down her arm just as pinching as his fingers had been. Jace kept staring, saying nothing of course, but there was an immense pleading in his face. To do what?

Her attention snapped back to Pangborn, who cleared his throat and stirred the quill in the inkpot before him noisily, eventually extending it to Clary. Simultaneously with his left hand he rotated the sheet of precise, concise legal print.

A betrothal contract. With the first spiked signature still damp upon it. _Jonathan Herondale._

Again, on instinct Clary's eyes skidded back to Jace. What did _he_ want of her? To concede and sign it? To resist? Was this some kind of trap?

The latter suspicion was answered by Valentine, who leaned forward until his breath brushed her ear. "Not your will but mine, my daughter." To accentuate his hands fell on the small of her back and gave a little shove. On the stumbling step forward she reached for the quill.

She looked to Jace one more time, long enough to spy the smallest of nods he dared.

Clary pressed the nib to paper.

 _-0000000000000-_

* * *

 _ **A/N:** **We got there at last. Let's never consider how long it took.**_

 _ **Also, I chuckled so much to myself at the reworking of one of my favourite Simon quips from City if Bones. I amused myself, if no one else.**_

 _ **Finally, speaking of Jesus, if anyone picked up on my rather pathetic rendering of a certain biblical scene at the end there pat yourself of the back. :')**_

 _ **Until whenever the next time is x**_


	22. Binding

**_A/N:_** **_Hello again! First and foremost sorry for the longer than usual absence: finals happened. I have a few questions to address here. Firstly, never presume I know what I'm doing in the present or in the future. I'm just bobbing along and trying not to get mowed over by a lady on a mobility scooter (long story, don't ask). Just to cement that vague wandering I'll quote Holden Caulfield; "How do you know what you're going to do until you do it?" Essentially who knows where I'll go with this fic. Yes, I have a plan. Will I follow it? Who knows?_** ** _Probably. Maybe not. I don't know how many more chapters are coming. But I am not finished with this yet. What I can promise is that the time skips are to become greater: things will be moving at a much quicker pace (for which I am relieved). So, instead of looking at weeks at a time it'll be months. But don't worry, the proleptic writing won't happen again._**

 ** _Because I personally find really long A/Ns at the start of a chapter off-putting I'm going to address the rest of the issues/questions from reviews at the end :)_**

 ** _Speaking of the end of this chapter: let me reinforce that the rating of this fic has changed. I have written, scrapped and then rewritten the final scene many times. I have long debated to myself whether or not to include it and if so in what detail. In case it hasn't already become obvious, we are dealing with the consummation of a marriage here i.e. a sex scene. Obviously that may not be everyone's cup of tea, which is perfectly fine: feel free to skip the final section- plot wise you won't miss a thing._**

 ** _-_** _000000000000000-_

* * *

 _Binding_

 ** _Late November 1536, Princewater Palace, Alicante_**

Isabelle loosed a long whistle through her teeth, the kind of whistle the nuns had once told Clary caused Our Lady to weep if uttered by a woman. The Princess was, however, in too bitter a mood to resist thinking to herself that if the Virgin Mary was shedding a tear for Isabelle Lightwood, it was not because of her friend's whistling habits.

"It must have cost a fortune," she breathed, taking no pains to disguise her begrudging astonishment.

"Princes have been ransomed for less," Clary deadpanned, "Or so I have been told. My father would make a spectacle."

"That he will certainly do," Izzy mused under her breath, skirting toward the bedside as if she feared the shimmering gown splayed across it may take flight if her approach were noticed. With cautious reverence, she reached out and stroked the golden bodice. It was so embedded with pearls and finery that Clary feared it would feel like a wooden board strapped to her chest at best and at worst a breastplate. As if she had required confirmation that her comfort was not very high on the agenda for the grand day, if it placed there at all.

Noting her surliness at last, her friend peeked up at her curiously, "I do not credit myself with being a woman prone to swooning, but I were I gifted a wedding gown such as this- I might make an exception."

"You are resolved never to marry," Clary reminded her coyly, crossing her arms over the front of her much plainer (and now pathetic looking) blue gown.

With tangible reluctance, Isabelle released her hold on the ostentatious garment, "My point is that I would have expected you to be beside yourself with joy by now. These past few weeks I have accredited your sobriety- nay, churlishness- to a state of shock. You could not believe your own luck. But now this godsend has arrived..." she gestured to the dress as fondly as another might a newborn child, "You have proof at last the King means for this wedding to happen. And as it is to happen in this gown you will be the envy of every girl in Europe."

Clary sighed and shuttered her wearied eyes briefly, then prised a hand away from her temple and blinked them open again, "It is much too gaudy. I like it not."

Isabelle gasped theatrically and moved to clap her hands over her ears, "Do not say such a thing of the masterpiece!" When she saw her young mistress was not going to surrender to laughter anytime soon she shuffled closer and tried her hand at being graver, "Surely even if the wedding dress is not to your liking the groom is? I honestly cannot fathom what has you so unhappy, Clary."

"I am not unhappy as such..." Clary attempted to amend, rubbing at her velvet clad forearms as if she had felt a sudden chill.

"Were I you I should be barely fit to contain my delight. You must have noticed by now that the other girls are gagging on their jealousy. Not only do you get the grand wedding, you also get the rising star who happens to be the most handsome man at this court for a husband." Delicately folding the edge of the spreading skirts out of her way, Izzy flopped down and arranged her expression until she gave the impression of a woman about to deliver a stern telling off. "Who I happen to know you love very much. Who loves you every bit as devoutly." She pinched her face to a frown then, enquiring with puzzled exasperation "So, why do you behave like a woman heading to the gallows and not the altar?"

Clary just sighed, unsure of where to begin or what wording to use. "It is not the prospect of my wedding that has me so on edge. More the manner of it." She could tell that what she sought to convey had yet to resonate, for Isabelle remained confused. Clary glanced toward the ajar door to her outer chamber, beyond which the excited cacophony of squeals from the rest of her ladies told her that the arrival of the gown was set to occupy them for quite some time. Long enough for her to confide in Isabelle. "Everything is happening so quickly, yet not quite quickly enough." She moved to the older girl's side and joined her on the bed, where their shoulders brushed and there was a much smaller likelihood of being overheard.

Isabelle's eyes widened dramatically, "You mean to tell me it is true?" she demanded, aghast.

"That what is true?" Clary enquired irritably in return.

Izzy's eyes shot to Clary's stomach and then back to her face, looking rather nauseated. "That you are..." The Princess caught her meaning quickly enough to halt Isabelle before she could go any further. "God in heaven! No! _No_." Her friend's relief was palpable, but now the initial shock had worn off Clary found another thing to concern her, "Are people saying that I am? Who would say such a thing?"

Isabelle shrugged sheepishly, "People gossip of their betters. Makes them seem less high and mighty- more human. Besides, the same would be said of any woman whose wedding was arranged so unexpectedly and with such urgency. "

She broke their line of discourse to pipe loudly, "Pearls would look well with the colour, Highness." The signal saw Clary turn her head rapidly to where Helen Blackthorn hovered, poking her head around the doorway.

"Aught amiss?" Clary enquired, eager to get rid of the girl as soon as possible.

"Nay, Your Highness," the lady said awkwardly, fidgeting and drumming her fingers against the doorknob, "I have misplaced my thimble" she offered weakly, "I thought it may be in here."

"You may use mine," Clary offered, baffled by Helen's obvious discomfort.

"Use mine," Isabelle cut in, her command ringing as briskly and icily as a sharp blast of the North Wind. "It would not be fitting for you to rifle among the Princess's things," she added as an acidic afterthought. Helen paled, but accepted the dismissal without protest and retreated back out to the others.

Once they were alone again, Izzy pressed on, "The real question Clary, before you reprimand me for that, is not what is being said. It is: to whom are they saying it? You tell me. You know that you were betrayed that night by someone, now a rather guilty Judas is lingering around your bedchamber and hanging behind after Mass in the hope that she will catch you alone. She wants to confess."

Clary sighed, letting her eyes drift to the window pane, which was sporadically splattered with raindrops as the dreary day tried to make up its mind as to whether or not to rain. "It was Helen?"

"It must have been. Few people knew what was going on and I did not talk to the King."

Despite herself, Clary chuckled a little, "Oh I know you would not succumb."

"Never!" Isabelle asserted grandly, "They would have to wrench out every last one of my fingernails" she added with gruesome delight.

Clary winced and happily returned to one of the many matters at hand, "Well I suppose I shall have to forgive her. There are few enough friends of mine at this court. And I can imagine how compelling my father must have been."

"Make her squirm a few days more," Isabelle advised, movingly heartless.

"Your cruelty fits in well here."

"You think so? Is this the part where you finally tell me what has you feeling other than perfectly blessed?"

 _Where to begin?_ Clary mused again, continuing to stare at the glass panes shuddering delicately in their frames at the pounding gales beyond. She knew she had to articulate herself somehow; being able to speak her troubles aloud mattered more than Isabelle's comprehension of them. Once again, she reminded herself her friend was much brighter than the vapid creature she worked so hard at pretending to be.

Truly, the one person who would understand was Jace but now her every gesture to him really was carefully monitored. She may be on the verge of being bound to him for the rest of her life, but being on the edge of something had never felt so treacherous, nor had he ever felt further from her. There would be no more covert meetings, no more private conversations and acknowledgment of inside jokes. Her father was inclined to make him into the stranger her royal husband ought to have been. Now he was officially the Duke of Broceland for a start, the result of a ceremony Clary had not been present at, instead her mother had played the presiding female. At every turn the legality and politics of this move was accentuated. It had nothing to do with the Princess's person- nothing at all.

She tried to tell her friend as much now, "You must know that while this is what I want, it is wholly the King's doing." She toyed with her hands uneasily and her thoughts simultaneously, trying to frame the right words, "He has had this in the works for months now, since I first got here. Longer, I should imagine. This is why I was brought here, why all of us were brought here. "

She chanced a side glance at her friends to find some compassion had softened Isabelle's perplexed expression. "Clary, your father did not make you fall in love with Jace. Nor he you- that you both managed all on your own. What the two of you have is very real. That is what is fuelling the gossip more than anything, pure envy. You have what every girl longs for- a handsome, devoted lover of whom her father approves."

"Every girl?" She could not resist needling Izzy as the relief expanded in her chest.

"Most girls," Isabelle amended with a playfully warning shove, "As you know I am the exception to almost every rule."

Clary's appreciative laughter faded, "Still, all is happening so suddenly. I can scarce believe it. There are times I do not believe it. Everyone knows that my father can do whatever he pleases and he can take away as easily as he gives."

Sighing with emphatic exasperation, her lady reached over to grip her by the shoulders and play at shaking her, "Clary if you look at it that way, damn all in life is certain other than death. That mentality would have us trembling in our beds all our lives, for what is to stop a horse ploughing us down as we try to cross the street, or the candelabra plummeting from the ceiling and impaling us? You cannot let yourself worry that all of this will be overturned," her attention returned to the previously offending garment, "As I told you, _this_ is the most fashionable piece of proof you could have received."

Clary leaned into Isabelle and laid her head on the taller girl's shoulder, grateful for the contact. Even as she did so, Clary experienced the painful realisation she could not remember the last time she had been held.

"Come now," Isabelle murmured with the kind of affection she would deny vehemently were she questioned on it. The Lightwoods were rather like that, the Princess considered. In the time she had known them she had come to find that they gave their hearts to very few, but although selective where they laid that love, once they did so they loved so deeply and fiercely it was astonishing.

"You shall not be your father's property much longer," Izzy muttered mutinously in her ear. Clary's heart soared at the prospect. It was true- legally she changed hands like any product once the sale was complete. In a few short weeks she would cease to be her father's to control, she became the property of her husband: Jace.

A cleared throat made Clary open her eyes and straighten up. Maia was the one who hesitating on the threshold this time, "Pardon, Madam. But Magnus Bane is here."

Much as she had been enjoyed her moment of snatched peace, duty always beckoned sooner or later. In this case, it was simply the consequence of her willingness to put the planning of her wedding into Magnus' trusted hands. He was happy to take more or less complete control of the mammoth and minute details alike; seeing such public spectacles executed was one of the foremost duties as her father's master of the horse. Where Clary would have no idea where to start in plotting the wedding procession's routes, or arranging the garments and entertainments, Magnus had emerged as a kind of godsend with the knowledge and logic to map it all out for her. Of course, while she had gratefully divested herself of the responsibilities and Magnus had gladly accepted them, he still had to defer all final decisions to her. And on more than one occasion, some particularly wild and flamboyant spectacle had to be curtailed.

Drawing to her feet now, Clary tried to shake off all weariness and cobble together the enthusiasm required. "Very well. Come with me ladies. We have a wedding to plan."

- _000000000000000-_

* * *

 ** _The Gard, Alicante, 1st December 1536_**

Jace had hoped that by now his nerves would have settled. The past month had seemed to last an eternity, an eternity where he spent most waking moments pinching himself. He was fully expecting a clerk to arrive at his chambers any day now, telling him that there had been a terrible mistake and he could not marry the Princess after all, or that there had been some error in the contract and this whole matter had been one of Valentine's elaborate jests. But where his son would delight in such a malicious jape, Valentine did not play with his food. Not on so public a scale anyway.

Exactly what the Crown Prince's thoughts on the betrothal were- and they cannot have been pleasant ones- he had remained eerily silent on the subject.

The only thing that could have made his situation less credible would have been the Prince tripping over himself to offer the happy couple his congratulations, so his failure to do so had in fact been a source of comfort to Jace. The world had not entirely departed from reason after all. Nonetheless, for Jonathan to be utterly _silent,_ not offering so much as a squeak of discontent to the King or make an attempt on either Jace or Clary's life...it as most out of character.

Jace had spent a noteworthy amount of time trying to safeguard himself against that anticipated assassination, particularly when he had left Alicante briefly to visit Broceland. Yet not one knife had twitched towards his back on the stay at Chatton house, and he barely encountered a soul on the road there and back again, much less a malevolent one. So Jace waited impatiently for what must be due to come as a very last-ditch attempt at the eleventh hour to halt the nuptials.

In the meantime he had kept busy; where Clary and her household had the joys of planning the wedding ceremony, Jace had the task of putting the affairs of his estate in order- the entirety of their life afterward rested on him. Fond as Clary's memories were of her convent life, Jace reasoned she would not be thrilled at the prospect of another existence in sacred simplicity. He had suffered visions of whisking her away to a draughty castle with a leaking roof, to be attended by a single surly servant shrouded in a questionable scent. He wondered how well Clary might love him then.

Thankfully those fears had never translated into reality. Reluctant as the King had been to part with Chatton House he had finally conceded after some urging, and had imparted to Jace the crown jewel of his birthright. With thanks to the Earl of Chene's careful tending, Jace would at least have one home fit for habitation to bring his bride to. Still, with only a few hours to go until the ceremony he ought to be feeling at least a some relief that he was within sight of the finishing line. Yet here he was, sweating under his furs despite the cold of the ancient, gloomy halls of the Gard as he tried to walk at a reasonable pace to where the King awaited him.

Since that night when he had been accosted by Jocelyn he had struggled to shake the sense that there was some surprise lurking around the corner, some crisis he had not the foresight to counter. Put a sword in his hand and Jace Herondale would give you a good fight, would fight anything, but he could not fight what he could not see. He did have a personal guard now for his safety, but for the moment they were limited in number and ultimately strangers. Jace would far rather have a man at his back who he knew respected him, or whose loyalty he deserved and could be sure of. He was not completely devoid of trust, everyone who wore his livery had been handpicked by either himself or Alec, but it had been done (like most things of late) hastily, and had not been a task very high on Jace's list of priorities.

Up until now he had held a rather naive conception of what being a duke entailed, the impression he had always gathered was of a life of leisure and privilege. The reality proved quite different. Suddenly he was expected to make judgements on which crops his tenants ought to plant in the coming spring, and which livestock they might be permitted to graze as well as ruling on any disputes they might have with one another. Then there was the matter of setting rent prices. Not to mention most of the houses he had been given- mainly Durre Castle- were in dire need of renovation and repair. Moreover, a whole new host of servants would have to be hired, as many of his houses lay empty between the King's visits. Chatton, for instance, had been manned by the Earl's people who would leave when he did. And those were only the domestic matters. His council seat now had him embroiled in the intricacies of court politics to the neck, and that was before he tackled the greatest of his father's outstanding debts. All of which he was supposed to deal with while outwardly maintaining the impression of a life of indolent comfort.

In time he could build a network of trusted stewards and castellans to shoulder some of the workload for him, he could then be more selective as to what issues he tackled personally, but at the moment the only aid he could rely in was Alec. His friend had of late made himself more invaluable than ever before. While Jace's adolescence had been free of any duty and thus dedicated to scholarship, Alec had more experience in being groomed for lordship. An expertise Jace was openly in awe of these days, although at the present some vague errand had Alec elsewhere in the city.

The court had come to the Gard purely for convenience, so that it would be easier than it would have been from Princewater to get to the Cathedral on the morn.

Jace had become all too familiar with the King's chambers in the past few weeks, but his private parlour still remained something of the holy of holies. He never felt quite worthy to cross the threshold. It seemed perfectly homely now however, the table laid for dinner with three set places. The King was already reclining at the head and perusing a paper of some description and Clary had taken up her position on the left, leaving Jace the position on His Majesty's right flank. He took it upon the King's merry greeting as bidden, meeting for the briefest moment the darting stare Clary shot him as he drew his chair in. She was gripping the stem of her wine glass a touch too tightly, he noted as her eyes fired back to the mantelpiece as though it were particularly riveting.

Jace did not blame her, this was the way they played it these days. Afraid that the slightest misstep and they would lose it all. Valentine had made himself perfectly clear without being explicit, he had thoroughly enjoyed toying with them and their future and from him all good things came. But from what few words Jace had manged to exchange with his betrothed they had agreed the best plan-mayhap the only plan- was to weather the storm and hope.

He did not want to tell her, but Jace knew it was he who was in the dock here. This was his trial alone, he needed to prove himself a fit match for Valentine's daughter in every respect. Henceforth when His Majesty asked him to jump, he asked how high. For Clary it would be worth it, Jace reminded himself, sneaking another glimpse at her profile. And he had made it this far. Really all he need do was hold out for the next few hours, then she would be his in the eyes of God and the law.

Once he had a glass of wine in hand Valentine laid down his document and raised his dark eyes. They twinkled, so Jace could not escape the image of a magpie surveying the treasure trove he'd painstakingly been building for years. "To tomorrow," He proposed, voice thick with satisfaction, "and all your tomorrows to come."

"Tomorrow," Jace and Clary echoed with solemn brightness and in perfect unison. They took the obligatory sip and Jace had to battle down the fond smile as the Princess failed to stop a wince flicker across her face at the taste of the rich alcohol. She had confessed to him once that she could neither abide nor adjust to the taste.

Valentine continued regardless, "And of course, to our family" as he laid his drink to rest on the table. Once that statement might have elated Jace, now it only made him wonder why neither the queen nor Jonathan were present. Not that he was impatient to call Jonathan "brother", though he would not deny doing so was sure to provide hours of entertainment. It did not stop their absence looking amiss.

Detecting his perplexity, Valentine donned his favourite knowing smile. "The two of you must be wondering why you are both here privately."

Clary did not disguise the keen question in the eyes that whipped from her plate to her father at pronouncement, though she did not voice it. Jace was not prepared to either, but studied his monarch mutely as he began to elaborate. "I should imagine by now you suspect your union will serve a purpose. It is time you knew your calling." Valentine helped himself to another spoonful of gravy, signalling in that gesture that all their attendants had melted away. The room was utterly silent too, Jace realised with a jolt there was not a single reader or musician to entertain them while they ate. "What we are about to speak of must not leave this room until circumstance dictates otherwise."

Clary visibly tensed at the that, bracing herself for whatever grand revelation was to come. Jace too felt himself fill with trepidation, being sworn to secrecy before a conversation was never a good sign.

The King noticed his daughter's discomfort and responded with rare tenderness, "Fear not, my daughter, all of our work is God's will. You have been chosen-"he nodded to Jace, "both of you, for greatness." If anything, that inflamed the young couple's discomfort. Too often did God's will and Valentine's seemed to coincide. "Both of you are, by now, more than aware that Jonathan is not fit to inherit." It took Jace a moment to grasp His Majesty was referring to his son, during which the delicate cuts of meat began to perform somersaults in his stomach. "His would be a reign of terror, nothing in Idris would remain unscathed. I rather fear Jonathan would burn the whole world if he could. It has troubled me for many, many years- since I first glimpsed that demonic streak in him as a boy and it did not fade over the years. So I prayed for guidance and at last the Lord showed me the way. My heir is too corrupt- what I need is a fresh one. Another boy to be shaped properly, groomed to be the greatest King this world has ever seen. To sit upon a throne of gold and rule the nation and descendants of Jonathan the Great for years and years."

Valentine was entirely enraptured in his vision for a time, pouring forth his own articulation of providence with such fervour Jace wondered if he had gone mad. Even so, he dared not peel his attention away from his sovereign for a moment, not even to gauge how Clary was taking all of this in. Had anyone else spouted that vision Jace would undoubtedly have laughed, but the way Valentine painted the picture made it almost tangible. The young duke had forgotten that there was a place in all of this for him.

"So God has lit the way for me. My heir shall be great from the very moment of his birth, how could he not when he is born of the most illustrious lines this country has ever known?"

He allowed a pause, for what exactly was beyond Jace. Apparently it eluded Clary too, for in all the time Valentine gazed expectantly at the young couple before him neither could form a word of response, just continued to stare back at him numbly.

That dulled his glorious moment somewhat, for the King added a touch irksomely, "My legacy lies not with my son but with my grandson. Your son."

Now Jace did glance at his bride to be, who looked dumbstruck. She was not capable of anything but gawping up at her father, who concluded his performance as the smugly serene angel Gabriel with another pleased smile and raised his wine vessel back to his lips.

Only Valentine Morgenstern, Jace thought, could pin the future of his legacy and a kingdom upon the merit of a child who had yet to be born while looking as though his happiness and heroism was already impeachable. And this was a scheme he had devised years ago, meaning that all of this truly had been laid out for them. An esteemed destiny not in the stars but in Valentine's desires.

He would disinherit his own son for a newborn in a heartbeat, Jace believed that. This king may well be a madman, but he was not one Jace was prepared to argue with. He was right on one count at least, his Jonathan would send Idris to hell and then laugh in the ashes. Surely anything was better than that. Clary was not going to speak, he appreciated now, and it would not matter even if she did. None of this was up for question or debate. None of it ever had been.

Valentine's vision was bigger than them, their lives and happiness. What had begun as a desire to meld his line to the Herondale one had become, in time, the golden solution to all problems. No one could gainsay him and Jace was not stupid enough to try.

 _Not my will but yours._

All they ever were, all they would ever be to this man, were his pawns.

- _000000000000000-_

* * *

For obvious reasons, Alec Lightwood could have done without a wedding. Really, the last thing he needed was a place of honour in the procession (damn Jace Herondale to hell) with a place at the high table to boot. Above all, he would give anything not to have to contend with his parents. He was touched that Jace considered them family, of course, but that did not mean he wanted to have to face them. He would rather take his chances on the French side at Agincourt than have to look his father in the eye in the next few days.

So miserably strong was his cowardice that he had even contemplated taking to his bed with a mysterious yet profound ailment and avoid the whole event. In the end, his damnable conscience proved too vocal and he had to accept that he could not do such a thing to Jace, considering that it would limit the groom's makeshift family party to only one member who would be preoccupied in making sure no one trod on the Princess's train. Besides, he was reluctant to deny Magnus an audience to his proud handiwork.

Delivering the planning almost singlehandedly was a colossal feat of achievement, and one that went largely unappreciated. No one desired to know or care that Magnus had lost many an hours rest in preparation. He had executed a minor miracle of plenty in covering the expenses of an elaborate public procession, a feast, after dinner entertainers and musicians all without emptying the royal treasury. Of course, the cost of one day had sapped more funds than Alec would ever earn in a lifetime, but that was immaterial.

Nonetheless, court life was more hectic than it had ever been before, with Jace the centrepiece. On the subject of the nuptials, where their opinions might differ on the bride the two friends were in pure accord when it came to the event itself: neither of them could wait for it to be over.

In that sense, Alec was glad of the still empty house on Canal Street. Magnus had yet to see fit to replace any of his runaway servants, and Alec could fathom why. His comings and goings would prove quite the scandal if unearthed, not that it proved much a deterrent. If anything, between the thrill of creeping off to Magnus and knowing that they would be alone together when he arrived added to the excitement. Even if he more often than not found Magnus absent at least in mind while he drowned in ledgers, cloth samples and pattern books. He even had a little replica of the parade: which looked to Alec's amused eyes a rather odd battle plan with the tiny banners of each lord dotting the roads from the Gard to a Cathedral. Still, despite his being occupied, Alec was glad of the company. He found that he and Magnus could survive in a comfortable silence for hours. These days silence was truly golden.

He thought longingly of his seat by Magnus' fireside now, how peaceful the house was sure to be and how bright the brittle sun would look upon the frosty gardens, even as he was confronted with a palace very much alive and kicking. The Gard must have woken long before dawn, if indeed it had ever slept. Most of the servants and nobles he had encountered thus far had worn that same hectic, glazed expression of a sleepless night and a stressful morning which was hours from abating. Fidgeting at the end of the great gallery now Alec could hear a maid weeping and witness a young, swearing steward bolt past him with two or three different gowns heaped over his shoulders, looking an odd replica of a foul-mouthed, demented camel. Elsewhere, from the chambers above a lady was actually screeching and Alec wondered if she or her garments had been assaulted while he glimpsed a groom who was already drunk tottering past the nearest window. He could have stood there for hours, thinking to himself that Magnus need not have hired the mummers for their amusement after all, but for all his mirth his mind did not stray far from the impending arrival of the Count and Countess. He was gazing morosely off into the distance and playing with the pin of his brooch when Jace finally came upon him.

"No sign?"

"Not as of yet." The Duke set to worrying his lower lip, mind obviously miles away, or perhaps more accurately hours away, when he were finally sworn to Clary and could breathe easy again. Alec had to attempt to allay some of his unease, "They will come, I am sure of it. Any moment now."

"You look as though you wish for anything but it" Jace commented, with a small, sliding smile. Alec rolled his eyes in return, "Look to your own imminent travail."

"Believe me, I do."

Alec could not resist a snicker, "Jace Herondale, about to be wed. The end of the world must surely be upon us."

His friend did look a touch ill. His skin was pale, and though his hair had been combed (that in itself an unprecedented event) he did not look as though he had slept or eaten much these past few days. Which Alec would hazard he had not. Thankfully they had quite the banquet to look forward to, by which time relief would provide just the right sauce to return his appetite. Seeing Jace look so nervous did stoke a kind of bawdy glee within Alec, but he curbed it long enough to say only half-jokingly, "Are you reconsidering?"

That snapped Jace out of it, and he snapped in turn, "Of course not. Never."

"For if you were, you need not continue. I would spirit you away somehow."

At that, at long last, the glimmer of a real smile started to cross Jace's face. "Bundle me amongst the remains of the vegetables in one of the food carts."

"Gladly."

Jace's smile paled away and he gave a soft, whistling sigh, "Love her for my sake."

For a moment, a response eluded Alec. How was he supposed to even attempt to voice his despair that after so many years Jace were about to undo every piece of progress he had made since leaving the King's household? Alec knew better than anyone the scars both literal and otherwise that man had left on his friend. To abandon him now at the mercy of the great manipulator all over again seemed more than merely a disservice to his brother, it could qualify as a betrayal.

"You know it has nothing to do with the lady _personally_.…" he began tentatively.

Jace nodded soberly, but raised his hand to halt any further protests. His expression hardened to one of rare graveness, "Alec I need you to trust me. This is my homeland. Even as I love you and yours I had no future in Adamant or in France, not one I wanted. And what I feel for her… it may not negate what I must become to have her, nor absolve me of whatever" he paused and contemplated several words before finding one that was adequate, " _discomfort_ I may encounter now that I am one of Valentine's creatures. But I expect she will make it bearable. And there is more to this than meets the eye."

Alec bit back a jibed comment about just how worthwhile Clary was sure to make Jace's lifetime servitude to her father, or to remind him that no sane person thought there was nothing more to this match than met the eye. In fact, his eyes wheeled away from his companion's entirely as two very recognisable figures advancing from the far end of the gallery.

His mother, remarkably to the foreign eye, marched a half-step ahead of his father, but Alec had spent years being fascinated by the dynamics of their relationship. It had taken him years to notice that it was not the traditional marital set up in the first place, or at least to suspect that other domineering wives were less frank about their control. Now he deduced it was Mayrse Lightwood's Idrisian upbringing that had left her unaware or unwilling to disguise what she wanted from anyone, including her husband. Still, beyond a marginal trailing behind the countess, Robert looked less a scalded cat than Alec might have reckoned. That was not to say his father looked at all comfortable in his court clothing, but the only trait of that was the way in which his eyes constantly danced around his surroundings. His father looked every bit as out of place as Alec felt and his son spared a moment to wonder who hid it better as he tilted forward to a bow.

He need not have bothered, for the man of the moment was the only one his mother cared for. Alec could not begrudge it to him on his wedding day, since it was not as though he would get parental congratulations from any other quarter. By the time both of Jace's cheeks had received a breezy kiss from Mayrse and Robert landed a hesitant clap on the back, Alec was as well composed to speak to the Count and his wife as he would ever be.

"Alec."

"Lady Mother." He placed the necessary kiss on the back of the hand already stretched out in anticipation. Mayrse looked every bit as regal as the queen was sure to in her maroon damask, but at this proximity it was possible to spy how the gold thread at her sleeve had begun to unravel. It had rather painstakingly been mended as best the Countess could, but good with a needle as his mother may be she was not a seamstress. The revelation that not only were she lacking the funds to replace the gown, Mayrse was not in a position to hire a professional to repair it either made Alec's stomach feel as though it were lined with lead. And this was what she had chosen to wear to a royal wedding, what she would have to stand in before all the nobles from her girlhood and be judged in.

The pang of dismayed embarrassment showed no signs of abating as he watched her carefully pasted smile return as she turned back to Jace. "You have certainly risen high."

Robert huffed out a chuckle behind her and added, "A better match you could not have found, boy." Jace smiled as graciously as he could, his ears reddening slightly. Mayrse meanwhile clasped his hand again and continued in her quieter voice, the one she used for intrigue, "Soon you must to divulge how you accomplished that."

Alec could picture all too easily how eagerly his mother would hear the tale, quite probably perched on a stool at his knee with paper and pen to take notes. To her credit, there were many people who wished to know the details of Jace's historic rise in the hope of emulating, but few would be so open about it. Again, Alec found himself partly cringing at and partly admiring her lack of smokescreen.

Jace seized the opportunity to escape when it was presented, "All in due course. For now, however, I have somewhere else to be." He drew in a deep breath and nodded once more to Alec, "We shall talk later." He completed the sentiment with a meaningful glance and then retreated hastily back the way he had come.

Alec knew he had spent far more time than he had to spare with them, he likely had not the time to wait for the Lightwood's arrival at all, yet he had made it. If they were touched by that, neither Mayrse nor Robert were about to acknowledge it. As soon as Jace was out of sight they rounded on their heir.

"Your letters have been getting briefer."

"I am glad to see you too Mother."

Her glacial blue eyes narrowed, somehow sparkling icier, "Alexander-"

Alec backpaddled before he was struck about the face. "In faith, madam ,I had little to say. Nothing that you would not have heard without me," He gestured in the direction Jace had left.

"Yes," his mother mused, "No Sybil could have seen that coming. To think the fortuneless boy I once took pity on is now the greatest of us all. I did write to Isabelle you know, when I first heard of it. I rather hoped she would finally agree to settle with him. I was convinced, I must admit, that now she could not complain of stranger she might at last allay those foolish fancies she takes against the notion of marriage. It would have been perfect."

Alec could not say he agreed. The idea of Jace being wed to his sister left him aghast and then promptly queasy. Logically it would solve their problems, but every fibre of him squirmed at what he deemed an unnatural union. The irony of his judging what was or was not natural romantically was not lost on the young lord, fidgeting sheepishly before his disgruntled mother and silent father.

"But alas, not even Jace is fool enough to settle for our Isabelle when he is offered a princess. And since Isabelle is not worth the trouble of trying to wrestle into a betrothal…" She paused and continued gazing ahead wistfully, as if the longed for solution was about to present itself. Which, Alec realised, she expected it was: that was his queue to offer himself as the next groom. There were many things Alec was prepared to do for his family, but fall on his own sword was not one of them. Even still, he was surprised at the strength of his own silence.

Even more startling, his saviour proved to be Robert. "It may not be as beyond the realms as that. I have been keeping an eye on that girl," He broke off and shot Mayrse an exasperated glance as her brows rose, "I told you I would- and it has come to my attention that Prince Jonathan has taken a liking to her."

If he had not been as horrified by that statement as he was, Alec would have been perturbed by the astonishment on his mother's face too. This was as much a new discovery to her, which indicated that his parents were no longer speaking to one another. If they could not even strike up a conversation about their children their marriage was in dire straits indeed.

"No that isn't- you heard wrong." He spluttered out eventually.

Now Robert was willing to play the interrogator, "In what way am I misunderstanding?" When no elaboration was volunteered Robert closed in on his son, "Do you mean to say she is his whore?"

"Robert!"

His father's fingers closed on his forearm as he tried to turn away, "Answer me Alec."

"No" he snapped, "Of course not."

Robert visibly relaxed, "Well thank God for that, at least. She has a chance then."

"Father, no. She cannot abide the man. He is a brute, an utter brute and- "

His voice echoed away, unheard. No one was listening. His parents were in perfect accord for the first time in over a year. Nothing could overcome a broken home like ambition, apparently. Their eyes had lit up like oil lamps, and Alec realised that even if he did reveal Jonathan Morgenstern's horns and forked tail it would have no bearing on his parents' newly fostered plan. They already had poor Isabelle wed and crowned.

- _00000000000000-_

* * *

If nothing else, by now Jonathan Morgenstern was convinced he would be unstoppable at the card table after this. Today marked the greatest accomplishment of his life: his face remained utterly blank throughout the whole godforsaken affair, which he knew because he checked it on the Communion chalice at the wedding Mass and later on the candlesticks at the celebratory feast. If anything, the Prince peering back at him looked bored. Good.

He would have to learn to bide his time, it would seem. Jonathan had assured himself he could do it, as he put the cool, tiny little hand in his foe's and impassively watched his sister chirp the Latin vows that tied her to a Herondale.

He wondered if he should be glad of the roaring headache he had woken with, since it made giving anything too much thought impossible. It was the punishment for his decision to rampage the taverns of Alicante with Verlac all of last night, he supposed. Even at that, he could not regret it. There was no way in hell he would have been able to bear the countdown to the nuptials sober.

For now, there was nothing to consider and naught he could have done about it anyway, save occasionally allowing his thumping temples a rub, not that it alleviated any of his discomfort. Every morsel he swallowed tasted like sawdust, while the wine he could not taste at all. Perhaps his sister's paling should have gratified him as the night wore on, but watching nerves and impatience wrangling their way across that pearly face as her wedding night grew near, he was more eager than ever for the damn thing to be over. He had contemplated having the Duke pushed down a flight of stairs or the new Duchess strangled before it could be consummated, but there was simply no chance of that. He was being too closely watched, as were the lovely couple, for any misfortune to befall them before His Majesty saw the matter closed. So Jonathan just tried not to retch at the taste or smell of wine and waited for the awful day to be at its end, so he could lie down in his darkened bedchamber and finally be alone.

Very well, he told himself wearily, sneaking another desperate rub at his head. Let his sister have her day. Tomorrow was fast coming, and it was anybody's to claim.

 _-0000000000000-_

The brush streaked through Clary's hair once more as Jocelyn guided it through her daughter's mane of copper locks, adeptly smoothing out curls and snags with each motion of her arm. Her mother hadn't brushed her hair out like this for years, certainly not since she had been a little girl. Behind her, Clary could hear the excited clucking and giggling of the ladies darting around her new bedchamber, putting away her jewels and her bridal gown she had been liberated from at last. The bride herself kept her eyes fixed on the looking glass. The face before her was pale, she noted, both from weariness at the long day and in trepidation of the long night to come, but that made her irises seem darker and more appealing. It also brought out the contrasting brightness of the shining hair that her mother draped over one shoulder now. Jocelyn paused briefly and muttered something about perhaps plaiting it, before giving her head a single, brisk shake and stepping aside.

Clary chanced a glance in the glass at her mother's reflection, curious as to what she would see there. At first the queen's expression seemed blank as ever, besides a small crease between her brows as she plucked out a stray ivory comb that had escaped her notice previously. Then her eyes lifted to her daughter's in the glass and her face softened, betraying a momentary flash of what may have been nostalgia or sadness before her eyes dashed away. She laid the brush and pin on the table before her with her usual swift, practical movements and turned away.

Absentmindedly twirling a finger in one of her freshly soft tresses, Clary slowly rotated herself to survey the rest of the room. The bedchamber she had been led to tonight was not much bigger than the one she had occupied previously but there was one glaring change. The moment she had crossed the threshold the huge bed in the centre had demanded her attention. It dominated the room, covers hauled back to reveal the crisp white sheets underneath. She could not tear her eyes off it now either, drinking in every aspect and hyperaware of every groove craved into the wooden posts, as well as the red and gold curtains draped over them.

Only a light tap on her shoulder could steal her attention away as her mother appeared again at her side. The two pairs of almost identical eyes met and Clary's breath caught. She waited for something profound to cross her mother's lips, some advice or assurance of love. Mayhap an apology, even. For all the years she had been hidden to no avail. For ensuring her daughter would be so alone, hanging on the mercy of others.

If she was blessed with a child, Clary found herself thinking angrily, she would never leave them so defenceless. Ultimately, one had to be able to protect oneself. In fact, her child would never be given cause to doubt their mother's love, never lied to. A child was not something to be held at arm's length and hammered into a weapon Clary still had yet to grasp the full picture, of that she was sure, but she had nonetheless arrived at the conclusion that all these years her mother had hid with her in Broceland she had been trying to weld her a certain way. The strictness, the demands for perfection, the way Luke had monitored her all these months at court... if Jonathan and Jace had been set up as her father's pawns in this Clary had been intended to be her mother's.

Of course, a simple apology would not remove the years Clary had been left in a dangerous oblivion as to who and what she really was, nor would it make her any less afraid of the future ahead of her. But it would be a start. All she really wanted was for her mother to make that first step. In all the weeks Jocelyn had been here with her the two women had lived more as strangers than family. Little beyond cold or cordial exchanges had been spoken.

But things were different now, Clary convinced herself. At long last it was just the two of them, face to face with no Valentine. It was a momentous occasion, and for it Clary just wanted her mother. Not the snowy faced and soft spoken queen.

What she got when Jocelyn did finally speak was someone somewhere between the two, "You know he may bring an entourage."

It was not a request, just a reminder. Clary nodded, more than a little disappointed and feeling her cheeks go hot and her stomach writhe at the prospect.

She should not be surprised, nor was she truly. The consummation of a royal marriage was a public matter and so, more often than not, a public affair. Of course the last thing she wanted was to lose her virtue in front of half the court, but as ever, hers was not the decisive opinion. Knowing her father as she did and beginning to see all that hung on this marriage as she was, she suspected she had good reason to fear. Valentine would want to ensure that the deal he had so meticulously made and pinned the hope of his legacy on was sealed.

"Was yours?" she asked warily, still reaching out for common ground.

Jocelyn scrutinised her for a second, then loosed a dry laugh. The queen did not need to invite an elaboration, she knew precisely what Clary meant. "No. The wedding was a secret event." She ended her response in a clipped, blunt tone, making it clear that she was not willing to discuss the topic any further. Not that her daughter wanted to hear any more of it, exactly, but she was still achingly aware of her own ignorance. Beyond the basics of the deed she knew not how she was supposed to act, nor what she was supposed to do.

On the one occasion she had managed to voice her mortified confusion the Marchioness of Edgehunt had been as embarrassed as her young mistress. "You need not expect to do anything, Highness" she had insisted past her flustering, "I suspect His Grace will know what to do." Thus the matter had firmly been closed.

That was part of the problem: Jace would know exactly what to do. Clary was aware there had been other women before her, and that was partially what made her so nervous. Surely with his experience being with her would be a great disappointment.

Be that as it may, she suspected from the moments that had stolen together over the past few months she knew more about what precisely might occur between herself and her husband than most girls in her position tended to. And of course she was aware that it could be much worse. At least she knew and loved her husband, and could be sure that he would not hurt her unnecessarily or be callous.

Isabelle took up position on her other shoulder, reaching over to slide off the excess rings on her hands until she was left with only the newest, her wedding ring. Clary fully expected the other girl to seize the opportunity to whisper something terribly bawdy. Mayhap she restrained herself only because the queen was within earshot or perhaps Izzy was not as averse to compassion as she liked to pretend. She shot her friend a knowing smile as she winked, "Nervous?"

"Somewhat," Clary admitted breathlessly.

"So is he," Isabelle whispered in return, darting away once again.

That comforted Clary a little as she clutched her rosary beads and knelt at her prie-dieu, struggling through the usually familiar Latin which was so muddled in her preoccupied mind tonight, her heart hammering frantically in her chest. Eventually deciding that her limited patience had decisively run out and that she was only insulting God in her dreadful attempts at prayer, she hastily blessed herself and rose, returning the beads to their box and snapping the lid shut.

As she did so she could hear the creak of the door to the outer chamber opening and a moment later Jace entered, looking much the same as he always did, except that now he was clad in a tawny night robe. Blessedly alone.

Well, bar the Cardinal who strode in behind the young Duke, scarlet robes flapping and incense burner clanking. He might have been marching to battle rather than a marriage blessing as he paced heavily around the bed. Gravely, Enoch launched into the customary chants and prayers, occasionally breaking from spreading the pungent scent to sprinkle the sheets with holy water.

Clary moved over to the bedside with what seemed like weightless movements, as though in dream. This whole day had felt like a dream, none of it quite reaching reality to her mind, but as Jace took up his position beside her, the warmth of his arm brushing against hers managed to ground her. She clasped her hands together in front of her and dutifully chimed the necessary 'Amens' along with the Cardinal's monotone as it dragged on and on.

After what seemed like the longest time she was drawn out of her own numbing boredom by Jace's murmur to her under his breath, "Are we not safe from evil spirits yet?" His new wife battled against a smile at his irreverence. Evidently he had tuned out long before even she had.

"Indeed," she whispered back, hardly daring to move her lips, "Long ago. We have been praying against impotence for the past few aeons."

She let herself peek up at him just in time to see him pull a mock face of great offence and anger, "No need to pray quite so hard." It took her a moment to grasp his rude meaning and she had given him a reprimanding shove before she could stop herself. He shot her a cheeky grin in return and the duo managed to compose themselves just in time, the Cardinal surfaced from his holy duties just long enough to fix a suspicious stare on the young couple before him who lowered their eyes and tried to look humbly prayerful until his attention moved away.

Though they had undoubtedly made a poor impression on the head of their Church, Clary found that Jace's usual humour and unchanged demeanour finally put her at ease. She knew not why she had fretted so, this was Jace. Her Jace. He would be kind to her and would take care of her.

She was lucky. So lucky, and she prayed her father never discovered how his boundless ambition and heartless plotting had brought her so much happiness. How much good his greed and selfishness had done.

Belatedly, Clary realised that Cardinal Enoch had finally concluded his pleas for fertility. With a final bow, he made for the exit as fast as his legs could take him, apparently petrified that any longer and his vow to chastity would be compromised.

Jocelyn was the first to react, stepping forward to her daughter, grasping Clary's shoulders and pulling her forward for a brief kiss on her cheek. She drew back and retained her hold for a moment, looking at Clary with an inexplicably deep pondering. Jocelyn looked as though she was about to tell her only daughter something meaningful at last, something that would betray the deep affection Clary had always been searching for. But when the time came all her mother had to say was a simple and short "Goodnight, Clary" before giving Jace the smallest of nods and exiting the room with her usual neat, rapid steps.

Clary watched her mother go, feeling confusion and a strange sense of loss, having finally realised that the lingering dregs of her innocence had left with the flicking train of her mother's skirt.

She did not have long to dwell on the loss. Jace reached out and turned her slowly to face him and his burning gaze. He gave her the amused half smile she had come to adore before bending forward and pressing his lips to hers. Clary happily let him kiss her, revelling in the first proper embrace they'd had all day. Too soon however, he pulled away, flicking his gaze to the loitering maids she had quite forgotten about, who were still giggling and nudging each other, whispering what were doubtless naughty things.

The lot of them were clearly drunk on the fine wine and atmosphere of celebration, and enjoying the sight of their handsome new master in his nightclothes altogether too much for Clary's liking. Before she could voice her displeasure Jace beat her to it, sliding his hands down to her waist as he spoke pointedly to the silly girls, "Goodnight ladies." The dismissal was subtle but unmistakable, and the eldest of the young ladies tugged on her nearest companions and drew her gaggle of friends towards the doors, albeit with a few titters and backward glances. Eventually the sounds of their exit faded, and Clary and Jace were alone together.

She tilted her face back up to his, anticipation thrumming through her entire body. All day she had been longing to be alone with him- nay- for the past six weeks, and now she finally was she couldn't think of anything to say. Not that much speaking would be required-

To her surprise, Jace released her and moved away, sauntering over to the fireside and grasping the jug of ale that had been left for them. He poured a glass and then flashed Clary a grin over his shoulder, "Thirsty?" he asked, extending the second cup to her. "They say it is good for the nerves."

With a small smile Clary padded over to join him, her bare feet sinking into the carpets with each light step. Admittedly her mouth was a little dry. "Jace Herondale, nervous?"

He shrugged at her, looking sweetly bashful as he sipped at his drink. Isabelle's words came floating back to her as she swallowed a mouthful of her own. The thought of him being just as wracked with nerves as she was oddly comforting, it made the prospect of it all less daunting. "Surely you have no cause to be." She took care not to sound judgmental or damning, merely that she was stating a basic fact.

Jace returned his cup to the table decisively, locking his gaze with hers as he grasped her meaning, "There has never been another like you, Clary. I told you that once did I not?"

She nodded, putting her own beverage down alongside his. She did not want to drink any more tonight, she wanted none of her memories of this to be clouded. The silence stretched on, in no way strained or uncomfortable and interrupted only by the faint crackle of the fire as Jace removed his robe and laid it over the nearest high backed chair, standing before Clary in his nightshirt. Through the thin, pale material she could see the outline of his muscled torso and the open neckline revealed the golden skin of his throat and the top of his chest.

She let her eyes wander briefly, feeling her heartrate increase once again when he stepped closer. His hand rose to her face and his thumb started slowly circling against her jaw as he raised it to his, the two of them now close enough for Clary to share his breaths and study his expression properly. She noted lust, of course, but something else, some uncertainty and despite their proximity she could tell he was holding himself back.

"Jace?" she prompted in a whisper.

"It need not be tonight, you know. If you are too tired, if you want to wait…"

For a split second Clary let herself ponder it. Her father would be none too pleased if she left this room still a virgin, and she knew from the gossip of her handmaidens there would be certain inspections of the bedding tomorrow morning that would catch her out in any lies. Still, for the first time, her father did not have the final say. She did not belong to him anymore, and this was for her husband to claim. Her husband, who was currently looking at her with enough tender concern to steal her heart all over again. Clary closed the gap between them, pressing a swift, chaste kiss to his lips despite the tension of the moment. "I love you," she told him, upon drawing back.

His smiled at her again, resting his forehead against hers, "As I love you."

"Then I think we have waited long enough."

One final shared glance for assurance and approval and then they were kissing again. This time the softness and hesitation was fleeting, her lips soon parting for him as she allowed herself to be drawn in deeper, his hands falling over her body and easily sliding over the smooth linen of her nightgown, her own fingers rising to grip his silky curls and pull him closer still. When they broke apart again it was only for a few snatched breaths and another shared look before his lips were back on her nose, her cheeks and her brow as his hands fell to the tied ribbons of her nightgown. He opened them with ease, pushing her long hair over her back and out of the way as the front of the garment fell open.

He straightened up and retreated slightly, eyes drinking her in. Carefully, and with hands steadier than she'd expected, Clary relinquished her hold on him temporarily to ease the gown open further and help him slide it down off her shoulders. Then she was shimmying it over her hips and stepping out of it, with unsteady breaths and flushed cheeks, naked before him.

Clary knew perfectly well that her body was not one to typically inspire lust, her breasts were small while her bare skin was milky in pallor and interminably dotted with freckles. Beyond that, she lacked the voluptuous curving figure men found so alluring. But the way Jace looked at her now, taking in every aspect with a reverence and awe that made breathing even more difficult. As though she truly were the Aphrodite she had pretended to be months ago.

"Beautiful," he stated simply, the roughness of his voice dousing her in a fresh wave of heat. Then his hands and lips returned to her body, kissing her neck fiercely and squeezing at her breasts until her knees shook.

Clary wound her arms tightly around his neck, clinging to him for dear life. "Bed" she gasped in his ear, rubbing her cheek along his jawline as she kissed at his own neck and nipped his earlobe. He growled something very ungentlemanly against her collarbone, gripping her hips as he steered her backwards.

Upon fell back against the sheets she quickly propped herself on her elbows to look up at Jace. He was still staring, wide eyes near black desire and hair deliciously rumpled. "Is it not unfair that you are still wearing more than me?" she admonished, sweeping an affectedly unimpressed appraisal over him.

He grinned back devilishly as she looked on, reaching up and pulling the final item of clothing off himself. Clary felt her whole body heat up at the sight of him, captivated by the toned torso before her, marred only by the scar she failed to view as a flaw at all, the lean limbs and then…

She struggled to form a coherent thought as she took in the sight of what was unfamiliar. She had never seen a man fully naked before, even with Jace she had never caught a glimpse of anything below the waist. Words failed her now, when she could so plainly behold his desire and the greatly unnecessary round of prayers. That was all that stopped her making a cheeky comment that might have wiped the smug look of his face as she forced her eyes back to his.

Whatever cockiness his expression held quickly dissolved at the sight of her staring up at him expectantly with wide, lusty eyes. Soon he was easing her back onto the mattress and hovering over her, careful not to crush her with his weight as he trailed kisses from her lips down to her chest. Clary could not restrain the helplessly wanton sounds the sensation of his mouth on her breasts warranted, letting herself roam over his own hot, exposed flesh. All the while she was delighting in the acute pleasure of all the little discoveries she made, noting for future use how his breathing got even heavier when she tugged on the curling hairs at the nape of his neck and how scrabbling her nails along the bottom of his rib cage never failed to illicit some groans or profanities of his own.

She quite happily lost herself in the heady pleasure of the his little nips and sucks as he moved down across her stomach and slid his hand along the inside of her thigh, gently parting her legs and dropping between them. When he turned his head to kiss the inside in her bent knee, that searching golden gaze set on hers. "Yes" she moaned her assent desperately as he finally touched her where she was burning for him most. She would have expected herself to be embarrassed at the intimacy of the contact, or to recoil at his probing touch as a single finger slipped partially inside her. It did not hurt, but was nonetheless a totally alien sensation, and not one Clary was sure she liked, squirming beneath him.

He withdrew immediately, hands gliding down her leg and pressing his lips to her inner calf instead. He murmured sweet nothings and promises against her sensitive flesh and Clary found herself relaxing once more, arousal rising again as he gradually kissed his way back up to her inner thigh. Pushing them further apart he began a few trial nips at the skin there, sucking at the flesh until she was moaning once more, stuttering breaths flying past her lips in what might have been his name.

He moved his way back up her body until he was kissing and biting at her neck, not hard enough to leave a mark, the kind of consideration he had not shown further down. If she had been in a state of mind to view things rationally Clary would have concluded that he had marked her where no-one would see, so as not to cause her any future awkwardness, but presently her mind was too preoccupied with her more immediate situation. Jace moved from nibbling her earlobe to drop a sensual whisper ear, "My God Clary. You don't know how long I've waited, wanting you. No idea how much I've wanted you like this."

She finally felt brave enough to continue her explorations into uncharted territory, dipping her hands below his waistline, following the line of fair hair going down from his navel. She loved hearing his breathing falter as she wrapped her fingers around his hardened length and the sound of her name now on his lips proved a new and brilliant thrill.

She slid her palms back along his spine as he shifted their position slightly, hand slipping between her legs a second time, and now with more satisfaction. She could clearly anticipate the next move. He tarried, just long enough for her to voice any discontent or insist he halt, before sinking himself properly into her. It took a few attempts before he filled her entirely. He paused again, trembling in her arms with the effort of his stillness.

Clary screwed her eyes shut in defiance of the pricking tears she felt at the strange inner pain. This much she had been prepared for, but like most things it was easier to accept in theory. A necessary pain and not a lasting one, her women had assured her, though one that varied in strength depending on the account. What one woman stoically declared had hardly been a sensation worth fussing over another swore was as bad as being stabbed with a knife. Thankfully, this discomfiture fell short of a stabbing, and gradually the pain faded enough for her to encourage Jace to move. He did so, very slowly at first and then, as the pained tension left Clary's limbs, she could urge him to move faster.

Tentatively, she let her hips rise to meet the movements of his, haphazardly at first until they found their rhythm. By now the pleasure of the act was fast overcoming the pain. Clary found herself as much in the throes of desire as before, then more so, watching the shared pleasure flash across Jace's features.

Their lips met, often clumsily, again and again. Each time more intimately, each one drawing them closer together in ways that were more than physical. She would give him absolutely everything, Clary thought as she surrendered her body to his entirely and he too came apart. Her heart, her body, more happily than she thought she would ever relinquish anything Clary offered all she had to him, knowing there would never quite be another moment like this. She loved that too, knowing he would be her first and only love.

When they were still at last and the ecstasy faded, Clary's joy did not. She kept holding onto him just as tightly, not allowing him to move even an inch.

He laughed indulgently when she pulled him back from an attempt to roll off her and buried his face into the crevice between her head and shoulder. He laid several sweet, adoring kisses upon her damp neck while she prised her fingers off his shoulders, glimpsing with more satisfaction than shame that she had clung to him in her finishing moments hard enough to mark his shoulders with little pink, crescent scratches from her nails.

When he did venture to shatter the silence Jace did so in a gentle, quiet voice. "Sweetheart, unless you want to start all of this again you had best let me go." He dropped another kiss to the side of her forehead to soften the ultimatum. Only because she was finding it increasingly difficult to catch her breath with him lying atop her, Clary released him.

The parting was not for long, Jace immediately tucked an arm under her and drew her to his side. Suddenly aware of the chill of the room Clary was glad to slide back to his warmth, wriggling her way under the covers beside him as she did so. Unfortunately, with her head resting upon his shoulder and her heart slowing to normal she also started to remember how tired she had been.

She fought it as best she could and they talked for a time, mostly about nothing in particular, just for the enjoyment of hearing one another's voice and holding each other as the wicks burnt out and the candlelight shuddered away. By the time they were completely in darkness Clary's eyes had already slipped shut. Jace kept speaking, telling her some foolish story from his boyhood at Adamant she had prevailed upon him to impart, though his voice started to sound further and further away, a situation not helped in the slightest by the lulling strokes and spirals of his fingertips upon her shoulder and back. Enjoying the way his low, fading voice rumbled through her Clary gratefully let sleep take her at last, feeling for the first time in a very, very long time completely happy and perfectly safe.

 _-0000000000000000_ -

* * *

 ** _A/N: Yuck. I really hated the end of that. But I didn't know how else to end the sexytimes. Anyway._**

 ** _Now to continue from earlier: as to what Valentine intends surely that's become clear. And no, the whole incest thing isn't going to be an issue, although I do like to slip in threads of canon so that is really all I meant by having the two of them raised together. Also, I want to make the point that Jace's feelings for Clary were initially brotherly- aside from anything else I don't think it would be realistic to claim that Jace was already in love with her when she was six and he was twelve. It just wouldn't work. A romantic attachment came later, when they re-encounter one another in later life. Also on that note, the age gap would not be acceptable today, but perfectly so in the 16th century. In fact, that age difference was next to nothing at the time, as I expect you've grasped from Clary's potential suitors. A girl was deemed ready for marriage from age 12, but I don't like to dwell on that. Besides, by the 1530s life expectancy had improved slightly and girls were no longer getting married quite as young as they had in the Middle Ages. Most tended to wait at least until they were 15 or 16._**

 ** _And again no, their upbringing would not be an issue standing in the way of their marriage. For instance, Anne Neville and Richard Plantagenet (later Richard III) shared part of their childhoods, as did the later example of Elizabeth I and Robert Dudley. Beyond that, I've already cited the example of Mary Stuart and the Dauphin Francis, who were raised together too, knowing from day one that they would be wed one day. So it was not unusual._**

 ** _Finally_** _**n**_ ** _o, I don't think Clary will paint with the same dedication she used to. That's not to say she'll never idly sketch when the urge takes her, but by and large it isn't an interest she can pursue. In the Renaissance, the world of art and painting was entirely a male one, females could not be apprentices or therefore practicing, paid artists. Now that won't stop Clary having an interest, but it very much limits what she can do with it: as a woman she could never sell a painting. The point is that this is another of her many gifts she has which she can't exhibit because of her gender. Besides, as a married noblewoman she would have more 'demanding' issues to attend to; she is soon to be responsible for the domestic running of a sizeable estate. Her role at court is subsequently going to change now too, now her fortunes are tied to those of her husband rather than to her immovably supreme father._**

 ** _Last but not least- It's not 1536 anymore kids. Use protection._**

 ** _On that note I hope everyone had a good holiday season! All the best to everyone in the new year! :)_**


	23. My Labour's Pleasures

**_"_** _The Mistress I serve quickens what's dead/ and makes my labours pleasures." -_ **(Shakespeare, The Tempest)**

* * *

 _-000000000000000-_

 _ **A/N: The apostrophe in the chapter title was deliberate. That is all :')** _

* * *

_My Labour's Pleasures_

Mind trailing slowly back to consciousness, Clary was firstly aware of the lingering weariness that still weighed down her body. Secondly, she came to terms with how pleasantly warm she was. If anything, that made opening her heavy eyes all the more difficult. The brushing touch that had woken her skimmed down her bare back again and a breathy chuckle sounded by her ear. She made a muffled, half-groaned complaint and burrowed her cheek further into the crook of Jace's neck. Almost painful waves of feeling raced down her previously numbed right arm as she readjusted herself, curling tighter against his side and letting the hand splayed against his chest slip half an inch or so. To her satisfaction, she could feel the measured thudding of his heart quicken at her touch.

He pressed a small kiss to the tip of ear, "Good morning, Lady Herondale."

In spite of how tired she still was, Clary smiled at the morning rasp to his voice and slowly cracked her eyes open. She peered up at her husband- God, it was sublime to call him that, even if only her mind- and slowly, blearily propped herself on one elbow. Jace smiled gently up at her, reaching out and tucking a stray lock back behind her ear before sliding his fingers along her cheekbone.

"How are you?" It was a deep question, lightly though it was posed. She perceived precisely what he was asking and spared a momentary review of herself. Other than feeling less than fully rested, she was not too profoundly discomforted. "I am well," she murmured reassuringly, leaning in to touch her lips briefly to his, whereupon another smile peaked at the new sensation of the stubble she encountered.

Drawing back, Clary rolled over until she lay on her stomach beside Jace, one arm still draped over him. She pressed her chin into the back of her wrist and sighed contentedly. She could quite happily lay like this forever, wound up in the bedsheets and him without any pressing responsibilities or worries. Unfortunately, she was beginning to sense that the price she would have to pay for these pleasures was a great deal more responsibility and worry in the future. Her thoughts must have been upon her face, for Jace's smile turned a little wry.

"Ready to return to the circus?" He gestured with a tilt of his head to the closed bedroom door, beyond which there were already noises of movement and subdued voices. "By the sounds of it they've been waiting impatiently for the best part of an hour." The only response she could muster was another groan, pressing her head into her arms and wriggling further under the blankets. Jace chortled and resumed stroking down her back, "It is a small miracle no one has yet run out of patience and burst in. Namely your father."

Clary gave a small, snide laugh and turned her head to the side to answer. "He will want to know the, ah- deed, is done."

Jace snickered distractedly by way of response. "I expect so. Him and the rest of Idris."

It was nonsensical, for the flush to stain her cheeks the way it did now, yet Clary could not fight the rising heat to her face. She tried to duck away with a nervous, tittering laugh, but Jace caught her by slipping his hands back under her jaw and tilting her head upright again. Given that no servant had dared venture in to resurrect the dead fire from last night, she was grateful for the warmth of his fingertips, still hot from where they had been tucked around her skin. He pulled her back for another lingering kiss, letting one hand tangle in her hair and the other resume tracing its way along the ridges of her spine. When he at last pulled away Clary refrained from opening her eyes, leaning in until her forehead touched his. Simultaneously, she curled her right hand around the nape of his neck and delighted in the tickle of the soft hair there against her knuckles. As if clinging to him would will the rest of the world away, along with whatever consequences for these moments were skulking on the horizon.

Jace uttered another breath of laughter, letting his wandering hand travel over the small of her back and around until it cupped her waist, pulling her body perfectly flush against his once again. "Well, since we are no rush to rise…" Eyes still tight shut, she smiled again, willingly leaning into him and landing a few fleeting, chaste kisses against his lips. "…And the matter at hand happens to be one of state importance…" Jace proceeded with masterfully smooth persuasion, which was far from required.

To her credit as a girl of good birth and holy upbringing, Clary offered no more than a short burst of laughter by way of assent and encouragement as her husband hauled her under the sheets once again.

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

 ** _Princewater Palace, Alicante, Mid-December 1536_**

Despite her endless nagging about how a lady ought to behave when she chastised her daughter's lack of propriety, Mayrse Lightwood was not prepared to pay much heed to decency when it inconvenienced her. This much was proved when she burst into her daughter's chambers late one afternoon, midnight blue skirts swirling around her like a stormy night and with a matching thunderous expression.

Isabelle, startled by the sudden entrance, jerked upright and moved at once to shield her modesty as the doors to her bedchamber where rattled on their hinges. The quick movement sent some of the scalding water surging over the lip of her tin bathtub and slapping to the floorboards. She was still curled in on herself and wide eyed when Maryse finally snapped her body to a halt and carefully lifted her skirts out of the way of the spreading puddle her startled child had created.

"Really Isabelle, there is no need for that. I did bring you into the world. I am perfectly well acquainted with your body."

"What are you doing here?" Izzy demanded, horrified.

"I have already told you. I came for Jace's wedding and the King was gracious enough to extend my invite to the Christmas celebrations."

"Yes," Isabelle began, internally pleased with herself for keeping her voice so even, "I mean here. Now. What possible discussion could not have waited another half hour?"

Her mother raised a haughty brow, "Mayhap you can answer that, daughter. It is the queerest thing- in the weeks I have been here our paths have barely crossed." She leaned forward until her fingertips were skimming the edge of the tub, blanketed by soaked linen to protect the bather from burns. Isabelle was always glad of it, as she insisted upon her bathwater being all but boiling, now she would rather have the sheet plastered to her.

"One might almost think someone was going to pains to ensure I was avoided."

Izzy scowled, partly because she was hugging her knees to her chest so tightly that now her feet were going numb. "Lady Mother, I have been busy. The Princess finds me invaluable- her words and not mine- and can barely be parted from me. That is what you wanted, is it not?"

Her mother smiled sardonically, "Partially, yes. Yet I cannot help but think that the Princess cares little for the company of anyone beyond her husband these days."

Isabelle responded with a shrug, delighted when the manoeuvre slopped another wave overboard and forced Mayrse to leap backward. However, that only prompted her to begin to pace around the bathtub and scrutinise every inch of Isabelle's skin, the entirety of which was on display. At the inspection she became hyperaware of her heat-reddened skin, as well as of how the steam had opened every pore she had and that a strand of clean hair had escaped from where she had messily pinned it up, out the way of the dirty water. Now that strand clung limply to the back of her neck.

"Do you still bathe in rose water? Is that what I smell?"

Isabelle was too taken aback to muster a smart response, "I- I suppose so."

"Hmmm. You are keeping out of the sun, I hope? We cannot have your skin browning like a peasant's."

"Mother!"

"I suppose those hot baths must be purifying. Still, I have my doubts. Have you tried egg whites? They pale the skin and halt wrinkles."

"I have no wrinkles!"

"You look like a prune"

"Only because of the water!" Isabelle shot back, growing pricklier the longer she was needled.

Mayrse kept circling the tub, running her palm along its lip as she moved. Eventually, Isabelle's already sorely tried patience was sapped, "What is the meaning of this?" Foreboding tightened its clawed hold in her guts, "I am hardly hideous Mother, what does my looking perfect account for anyway?"

Having completed her lap, the Countess halted and leaned forward, until she her mouth was level with her daughter's ear, "I hear the Crown Prince is captivated by you."

In spite of the warm water Isabelle felt chills, and her naked skin erupted in gooseflesh while her stomach undertook an acrobatics routine. The physical signs her mother happily misinterpreted. "You always were such a pretty girl. I should have known you would snare a big fish."

Isabelle lurched forward and scrabbled for the dry towel hanging on a nearby stool. She wrapped it around herself as hastily as she could and clutched it to her wet, shaking body tightly, as though the Prince were present in body and leering at her.

"Mother- it is not…" The protests trembled as much as her body, not that it would have mattered for her mother's ears might as well have been stopped with wax. Mayrse chuckled to herself and straightened. "Modesty never suited you Isabelle. Nor could you ever lie to me."

Isabelle tried to compose herself and fix her mother with a serious stare, "I am not bedding him. Nor will I start to. I will not be his whore."

"Good heavens no!" Mayrse made a show of flicking droplets of water off her billowing sleeves, "Although considering your whoring got us into this mess there would be a certain justice to your seducing our way out of it."

The offhand comment knocked the breath out of Isabelle, just as she felt the colour slither off her face. "What do you mean?"

Mayrse shot her daughter a withering look, "You thought your father would not tell me? Isabelle, he was incensed enough I feared you had murdered someone. I rather wished you had, when your betrothed informed us of exactly why he could no longer wed you."

Her wet hair kept splattering onto the floorboards miserably as Isabelle clambered out of the bath in the most ungainly fashion, with every intention of fleeing. "You left me no choice," she began to argue her case hotly, "You refused to believe that I would not marry him. I told you, I swore in fact, that I would do anything to stop the wedding…"

"Well we may have taken that threat seriously, but I am afraid we rather thought too well of you to imagine the lengths to which you would actually go. Christ have mercy, what demon possessed you to take it into your head the escape route was to seduce his father?!"

 _Try to seduce_ she contemplated amending, though judging by her parent's face the denial would not be believed. Even as her heart beat fast enough to set her head spinning, Isabelle tried for some of the dry wit that would have served Jace so well in this scenario, yet it fell flat. "Perhaps I thought that would make him want to hasten the wedding?"

Her mother's eyes were blank with disgust, "-For your father to have to sit and hear from your betrothed's lips that since you had known his father in the biblical sense your union would now be _incestuous_ in the eyes of the church…"

Any further words failed her. Perhaps that was for the best, for already the stinging weight of tears were beginning to press behind Isabelle's eyes. She had borne her father's ranting and roaring on the same subject in a white-faced silence, gratified to know that for once his not knowing the half of it worked to her advantage, but a few sharp words on her mother's shame made her want to weep. The two of them were been allies on most things, with her being the only girl in the family. Mayrse had always spoiled her, seeing her own likeness in her daughter. Now she was looking at her as though she could no longer recognise her.

"It is a miracle he did not pack you off to the nunnery. Truly, you are fortunate that the state of affairs dictate that we need you to marry."

"What does that mean?" Isabelle asked, her voice hoarse from suppressed sobs.

The Countess shook her head, lips clamping shut.

More than her pride had been wounded, otherwise the next words to burst from Isabelle Lightwood's mouth would never have done so, "If we are to speak of affairs, surely you must know mine is not the reason father banished me here! I have known about his whore in Paris for years, just as I watched him flirt with the prettiest serving girls for years- but I kept my mouth shut! Then that bitch in Paris went too far! She was wearing the finest of clothes, eating well and making merry while you were trapped in Adamant, re-hemming your best gown from five years ago and scrimping on meals. When will you all get it into your heads that I am not stupid! If we are counting our pennies, Lady Mother, it is because father's harlot is spending them! You deserved to know and I was tired of holding my tongue. That is why father sent me here, that is why he hates me now. For he is hardly in a position to condemn my debauchery."

"Isabelle that is ENOUGH." To her spiralling horror Isabelle noticed her mother was shaking now, her hands clapped to her stomacher as if she did not trust them to be free and her chest heaving as though she had run a race. "I will hear no more of this. No more I say. Ever." She sucked in a series of shallow breaths and then steadied herself. Though her next words shook, Isabelle had no doubt of their sincerity. "Not a single word more is to be said on either subject again. Do you understand?"

Scalded to muteness, Isabelle nodded.

"Should the matter ever come to light…" she swallowed before pressing on with growing momentum, "As far as anyone is concerned, you were taken advantage of by that man. He used and dishonoured you- a young girl too innocent and trusting to withstand him. He had the advantage of years and force. You are the victim, not the villain. We cannot pass you off as pure, therefore you must appeal to the Crown Prince in other ways." She paused at last, to shoot Isabelle a meaningful look, "Regardless, you must never succumb. Not ever. Play the whore but never be her. Lead him on without relenting. Tease him and promise him everything but deny him your bed. Make it clear that if he wants you he will have to marry you. It has worked for other women and so it will work for you. Believe me, if you get his blood hot enough he will flatten anyone who tries to stand between you." Her final afterthought fell disdainfully, "God knows, it was so for his father."

Had Isabelle not felt so bruised, she might have jostled the countess further with a reference to some if the rumours she had heard about her mother's relationship with the young King before he had mounted the steps of his throne. As it were, she was still reeling from the onslaught of blame she had just received and felt she had not the strength to fight her corner here any longer. If her mother was against her, she had no hope whatsoever.

"He will never marry me. He does not care for me that way." _He does not care for anything or anyone, the bastard._

Her mother's bitter eyes sliced back to hers, shooting up and down her half naked body before returning the full force of her gaze and will to Isabelle's wan, wretched face. "Then you make him."

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

A sterner mistress would have lost her temper by now, Clary thought to herself, wincing yet again as another pin pricked her scalp. "Apologies, Madam," Rebecca mumbled, frowning in concentration as she prepared to wield yet another. Clary was beginning to feel her head resembled a pincushion, but refrained from commenting on her discomfort. Wives were supposed to be uncomfortable, she reminded herself ruefully. Eventually she was bound to get used to added weight atop her head- she had grown used to the courtly hood in time. Naturally, as soon she had, the bar was raised. Her days of free-flowing hair were behind her, now it was to be plaited and pinned in a coil out of the way of the veil. From now on, like any respectable married woman, she would be veiled under her hood. Long hair belonged to maidens. Now, like the rest of her body, her hair was for her husband's eyes only.

The past few weeks had been her adjustment period after all, and she was starting to come to terms with a lot more than fashion changes. Now she had new rooms, which she and Jace shared and although formally they had separate bedchambers that too she shared with him. This proved something of a scandal, of course newlyweds were expected to lie together- but a husband who came to his wife every night of the week?! They had appalled at least half the court with such goings on.

The pinnacle of the debacle had come when Clary first started to bleed away the King's first hopes of a grandson a week after the wedding, only for the Duke to later arrive in her bedchamber in his night clothes undeterred. The Marchioness of Edgehunt (re-instated as the head of her household after a bout of ill health) had been rendered a daunting purple at his appearance. She had flapped like a fish out of water, trying to convey as politely as possible that he could not possibly share his wife's bed for a week, and she had sent a message to that effect some hours hence. Jace, cheerfully cavalier as ever, had merely patted Lady Penhallow on the arm and told her that though he was touched by her concern she need not fret. "The Duchess's pillows are more comfortable than mine, that is all I mean by it," he'd informed her jovially and then dismissed her for the evening.

Contrary to what their retinue may say, the two of them were not entirely depraved. On that occasion, the first of its kind, Jace had pleaded to stay as all he wanted was to fall asleep next to her. Mortified as she had been after the Marchioness's ousting, Clary had still not been inclined to look him in the eye and deny him. God knew, Jace had been lonely long enough.

Nonetheless, such things were not to be borne. The next day Clary discovered that the complaint had reached the ears of the queen. Following what was undoubtedly the most unpleasant conversation Clary had ever had with her mother in her life, the young couple had agreed to cease the impropriety. A promise they had not kept, as it transpired. The following week they had returned to Princewater, where the Duke and Duchess's bedchambers happened to have an adjoining passage hidden to the public eye. Thanks to that, Jace could come and go unbeknownst to anyone, and as often as he pleased.

He made just one of those entrances now, albeit through the main doors and fully dressed. The Duke nodded a brief greeting to Rebecca and then passed his new wife a piece of parchment. Clary spared a downward glance at the list of names before raising her head again so Rebecca could adjust her headwear. "What is this?"

Jace sauntered over to the fruit bowl upon the table behind her and began crunching at an apple before answering, "Your petitioners for the day."

Forgetting her handmaiden entirely, Clary whirled to face him, the sudden movement causing the unpinned hood to slide over one ear. It must have looked comical, but Jace chose to be a gentleman and held back his laughter as she impatiently restored it. "I have petitioners?"

Jace nodded and swallowed his mouthful of fruit, "Of course. You are the King's daughter and the Duchess of Broceland," He smiled teasingly and fired her a wink, "Therefore a very powerful lady."

Clary rolled her eyes and scoffed, rubbing her hands together as she started to contemplate it. "But, are you certain…" Jace leaned back against the table and crossed one ankle behind the other, the very picture of nonchalance. Clary tried not to get distracted by how the cobalt blue of his doublet brought out the brightness of his hair.

"Of course you are ready. I daresay you have been for some time, only your father saw no need for you to engage with such things when you were expected to be sent away to marry. Now you are an Idrisian noblewoman through and through, so you need to start concerning yourself with the issues of Idris' people."

"Naturally," Clary hazarded, chewing at the inside of her mouth as her thoughts whirled. "But would it not be best if I waited until we got to Chatton? There I would be dealing with _our_ tenants."

"On the contrary. I should think it good practice. Besides, it will be well into the new year before your father will release us form court. Surely you want something to do with yourself until then." The Duchess shrugged, the knotted anxiety in her stomach showing no signs of abating. Yes, she was desperate for something useful to devote her time to, but her last interaction with Alicante's commons had not exactly been amicable. Noting her silence, Jace moved forward and reached for her hands, "Sweetheart-"Damn him, he knew that would be her undoing- "I am not asking you to judge a murder case. Only a few petty squabbles. Anything you are uncertain of, or feel incapable of judging, can be deferred to me. Or in an extreme case your father. Think of it like a novena- you are offering your intercession."

Clary's brows slipped to a frown, "Is that blasphemous?"

Jace shrugged and continued soothingly, "The audience will take place right here in your presence chamber, my guards will be just outside the door." He lifted their entwined fingers to his lips and dropped a slow, sweet kiss on her knuckles.

"What of you?" She asked at last, "What will you be doing in the midst of all this?"

A smile with a glimmer of sheepishness surfaced on the young Duke's face, "The King has arranged a hunting trip downriver and begs my company."

"Hmmm. Strapped to that new chestnut hunter of yours against your own will?" She enquired drily.

Jace tutted, "Married a fortnight and already a source of such disapproval to my bride. You know, the invite was extended to both of us."

Clary gasped and shook off his hands melodramatically, "No need for such threats."

Jace spread his arms in play surrender and began to retreat. Clary granted him a smile and pretended to shoo him out, "Away with you then! Leave me be to get ready and put the day to good use."

"I shall bring you back a nice boar!" He called over his shoulder as he left. Clary laughed quietly to herself as she turned back to the looking glass and Rebecca, whom she had almost forgotten was there.

For all her complaints she did not begrudge Jace his manly pursuits. She knew from hearing him speak of it how he loved the thrill of the hunt, and the freedom of travelling at such speed on a good horse. And after the weeks he had been cooped up she was glad to see his joy in the outdoors rekindled. Besides, he was always in the finest fettle when he came back with muddy boots and a face reddened by the winter gales, even if they caught nothing.

Anyway, if this list was to be believed she had a busy day ahead of her even without him. Her first taste of real courtly life at last. A smug little smile rose at the thought. Finally, somewhere her voice and brain would matter. Now she could rule with the Duke's authority, even if only in a debacle over what a suitable price for a chicken was.

People were wrong. Marriage was not simply another form of bondage after all.

-000000000000000-

* * *

 ** _Princewater Palace, Christmas Day 1536_**

Apparently the general consensus held that this year's festivities to commemorate the Saviour's birth had been a mighty success. Every strata had something to be joyful about; the commons for one were glad of their second holiday in a month and showed no intentions of sobering anytime soon. If among the merchants and traders of the capital there was a dampening memory of how the recent rebellion had proved a commercial setback they hid it well, and among the nobles there was certainly no such annoyance. The celebrations had commenced at dawn Mass and now stretched on late into the evening, with no signs of abating anytime soon.

Where the money for another great feast was coming from was of no one's concern but Magnus Bane's, and anyone who did spare a thought for the co-ordinator would have found no hint of worry in his overt gaiety. Nor did the King seem discountenanced, smiling supremely from his place of honour and nodding only once to his master of the horse, his Crassus, who could conjure the funds from somewhere.

A season of miracles too- meanwhile his wife, the long lost queen, perched on his arm once more with a warm plum coloured gown to consolidate her restored royal status. While that may have been the source of His Majesty's glee no one was looking at the queen, not when her daughter proved so radiant.

The Duchess, as she now penned herself rather than 'Her Highness', was in a dress almost as bright as her face tonight. The holly berry red of her skirts swirled around her merrily as she clapped and spun her way through the court dances she no longer shied from. These days she chatted and laughed with her court as if it she had been years among them rather than months.

Though the matrons smirked to one another and slyly muttered that the delight of marriage's first days would be lost to her soon enough, none of their daughters were listening, enraptured instead by the lithe, jolly form of the Duke beside her. All in vain, for his eyes were not like to stray from his sweet, bonny bride either.

It was rare that Prince Jonathan was at one with the rest of the court, yet he could not wrench his attention from his younger sibling either. She was beautiful, he noticed for the first time with no small amount of unhappiness. Not that she had not been pretty before, but now she seemed older and more comfortable. The awkward, timid girl he had first encountered in that swaying barge had been stripped away. Now there a was a lively young woman in her place, and this Clary. Jonathan reflected, he did not know what to do with, settling for swirling the spiced wine in his goblet around absentmindedly.

He was, it would appear, alone on his unshakable melancholy. He had been hoping that the Yule revelries would bring with them some of the peace of mind that had been eluding him for so long. The plan had been that some good wine and food would in the very least prove a distraction from how spectacularly everything had gone to hell this year. If he was to keep from pitching himself off the roof, Jonathan had to reassure himself that Fortune's tide would change soon.

Sooner than anticipated, it would transpire. A soft hand upon his shoulder and the Prince pivoted in his seat, coming face to face with his father.

Valentine offered a thin lipped smile that was no warmer than a Baltic winter, and one which Jonathan was all too well accustomed with. "Yes, Sire?"

The King lifted his hand off his son (with some gladness Jonathan was sure) and gestured in the direction of the side exit, which was close to the high table. It had been designed that way in case the royal family should ever require a swift exit, given that the great hall's gallery was designed for the wider public of Alicante to come and view the spectacle that were mealtimes here. Tonight however, it was his own nobles and lackeys Valentine wanted to flee. "Come. Quickly, when we shall not be missed." Granted, a brief scan of the hall confirmed that their departure would cause no ruckus. The unquestioned centrepiece of the party remained the glowing newlyweds.

Silently, Jonathan slipped out after his father and followed him into the nearest antechamber. Someone had lit the fire and the Prince made straight for it, chafing his bone white hands together over the low, wavering amber flames. Having departed the stuffy hall the cold of the empty room came as a shock. Sadly, he suspected this fire not been long lit, as there was no great heat emanating from it and flames rimmed only the edges of the haphazardly piled logs. Mind over matter, Jonathan told himself sternly and he stretched out his fingers anyway. Rather than taking a seat, Valentine came to stand opposite his son. Languidly, he propped his elbow upon the mantelpiece and pressed his free hand to his hip. It may have been a carefully chosen stance, but Jonathan was not fooled. He had noticed the tension in his father all day. Valentine seemed more tightly wound than usual, however cheerfully he might present himself. For a moment the King peered into the fire, watching it gain momentum and the flames darken to burning oranges and reds. Jonathan found himself waiting with baited breath. They were at a crucial crossroads here, a change in the current. He could feel it.

At long last, he sensed the change had met its consequences.

"You are aware, I am sure, of the many unsettling rumours that are flooding into the city with every passing day."

 _Which ones?_ Jonathan longed to enquire. Instead he flicked his tongue along the roof of his mouth and drew it back and forth across his front teeth until he could bear the pregnant silence no more. "Appertaining to?"

"Our newest family member."

Again, Jonathan waited. For all he knew his father was attempting to entice him into saying something untoward about the brother he would rather gouge his own eyes out than have to acknowledge. Thankfully, Valentine spoke again before his son could, "He has made quite the glowing reputation for himself. All of which circumstance and we ourselves have allowed."

Jonathan shrugged. "The hero of the peasantry. I cannot fathom why. Their leader died suspiciously during that little parley."

"And now they have a new one. One which I have welcomed into the bosom of my own family and risen very high indeed. And you know well what is being said of that. That he seduced my daughter under my nose and I had to construct that wedding in hasty reparation. He seems impetuous. Worse, he seems to have the upper hand."

 _So why do it_? Jonathan had to literally bite back the words by sinking his teeth into his tongue. Still anger and confusion clashed and broiled within. If giving Jace a dukedom and Clary's hand made them look like helpless fops then why had Valentine been so insistent? He was a man obsessed with image and perception- how could it not have occurred to him how all of this would look?

Valentine leaned in closer, dipping his voice to a pitch just loud enough for Jonathan to detect the following growl, "They are singing his praises in every county. From Broceland, to Edom, to Lyn. The final Herondale, the champion of the common man- the people's king." That final, deadly word clanged into the quiet, setting Jonathan's teeth grinding and fingers curling to fists.

Finally releasing his tongue when he deemed it safe, the Prince did venture a question, "Then surely the time has come to remind them who is their king?"

Valentine nodded, apparently deep in thought. Again, Jonathan was not entirely convinced his father was not already several steps ahead in this conversation and steering it accordingly.

"What do you suggest we do, Jonathan?"

Jonathan pressed his palms to the stone fireplace, feeling it at last begin to thrum with heat under his fingers. "What we should have done weeks ago." _Instead of wedding planning_ , he added, only to himself. "We know the names of the main men among Tiller's allies and followers, as well exactly which farms we let them scurry back to. They should be hunted down: reminded that disobeying their King comes at a price and that the punishment for treason is death." He started to tap at the stonework now, the coming tempo of his thoughts providing a far merrier tune than any of those he had danced to earlier.

"Yet that alone would not be enough. If we truly want to show all of Idris who holds the power, we need to carefully select our instrument for exercising that power." For the first time in weeks, months even, Jonathan found himself growing excited, optimistic. He lifted his head and let a smile inch its way slowly across his lips. "But by the same token we cannot tolerate a peasantry who have proven they will rise against us worshipping a Herondale. So, we make it undeniably clear that the King's hand is behind all our Herondale does. We send him to dispatch the rebel leaders. The same men to whom he promised clemency and an intercession. They will feel betrayed, in the least. At best they will never forgive him. Either way, it shall be clear that he is only a Morgenstern puppet." His exhilaration flared further still as he caught a glimpse of similar fiendish satisfaction on his father's face. Just to sugar coat the best Christmas present he could have offered His Majesty, Jonathan lowered his head again, "Alas, you know I am more than happy to do your bidding Father. I would gladly be your servant in this and all else, but I think when one considers the climate… do you suppose we could spare our Duke?"

Valentine skimmed the back of his knuckles along his chin in silence. Jonathan wondered how deeply he were thinking, if he was only pretending to think- but no. He knew his father well enough by now to differentiate with reasonable success what was affected and what was genuine. Whatever was spinning through that silver head, he was certainly balancing his options. Eventually he nodded slowly. "Ideally he would stay here, with Clarissa. But as you say, given the situation… Aye." For the second time that evening he laid his hand upon his son, clapping him several times on the back.

"You have always told me the art of kingship is knowing when to exercise mercy and when to be ruthless. I do not feel that this is an occasion for the former."

Valentine had already moved on, both in mind and body as he made back for the door and the continuing revels. "All the same Jonathan, I think the lesson eludes you still."

Jonathan felt his mouth pop open, either to demand what that meant or deny its implication but by the time the first syllable formed, Valentine interrupted him, brisk and business-like once more, "Say nothing to anyone of this. I will be the one to tell your brother."

Somehow, even denying him that pleasure could not dull the moment.

 _-000000000000-_

* * *

The messenger arrived around noon on St Stephen's day, startling Alec out of his reverie by the window. He had been hiding from his parents and trying to kill the hours until Magnus came back from the city bank, so he had opted to spend some quality time with his old foe Plato. Subsequently, he had been peering out over the courtyard and wrapped up in a rather pleasant daydream when the knock on the door came. He found himself leaping up and raising the book to his chest in a flimsy, papery shield, mayhap in anticipation of a similar intrusion to the one Isabelle had suffered.

His sister was still reeling from it, though the entirety of what their mother had said to her had yet to be imparted. But they had obviously not exchanged pleasantries. Mercifully, when Alec did open the door it was not his rampaging mother, only a lone man in blue and gold livery which sported a familiar beech tree badge. Alec sighed and ran his fingers through his ruffled hair, "Yes?"

"The Duke begs your presence, milord" the lad sniffled.

Nodding vaguely, Alec set about righting his appearance and dragging his boots out from under the bed.

A few minutes later he was at the doorway to the Broceland apartments. Before the herald could make it to the second syllable of Alec's name Jace had emerged to wave him away, looking particularly distracted.

"You know," Alec tried for a stab of amusement, "If you are to really to live up to the address, Your Grace needs to start putting on some airs and graces." His friend failed to crack a smile, draining what was left of Alec's good humour. Jace made for the door to his bedchamber, bypassing a still mumbling clerk on the way, leaving Alec to trail after him nervously. "Oh no. What ails you?"

"Close the door." Once he had done as instructed Alec took proper stock of the room, attention latching on the freshly polished breastplate and gauntlets hanging in the corner. Though there were the usual feminine accoutrements he was growing slowly used to finding in Jace's room-a scrap of lace here, a scent bottle or earring there- the lady herself was nowhere to be seen. "Where is the Princess?" Try as he might, Alec could not shake the habit of using her old title.

Rather than brightening as he usually would at the mention of his wife, Jace's expression grew grimmer. "She has taken a walk to clear her head." He raised his hands to screen and wipe at his tired eyes despondently. Now they were face to face Alec appreciated that the Duke looked ill. His skin was pale and his mouth trembled as though he were fighting bouts of nausea.

"Clear it of what?" Alec questioned warily as he edged over to a vacant seat.

Briefly Jace fidgeted on the spot, mouth twitching soundlessly before he finally took a seat too and dropped his head into his hands, the manoeuvre setting the gold chain around his neck rubbing the tops of his calves. When he raised it again he continued to rub at his temples before speaking, "I have just told Clary and decided it would be easiest to do all the necessary declarations in one go, so then I sent for you." He swooped in a breath, "The King has a task for me."

Alec listened carefully as Jace imparted the details of what was expected of him, dread and anger stirring and rising higher the more his brother said. When he finally finished, looking more despondent than he had in months, that ire had subsided, leaving only tremors of pity. Resisting an unhelpful frown, Alec tried to urge the wheels of a plan into motion, "Can you not work your verbal magic? Convince His Majesty to take another course?"

"Not this time," Jace shook his head glumly, shakily pouring himself a glass of wine before adding, "I did try but he is most resolute in this masterplan. All I can do is as I am ordered."

"You truly think so? God Jace, you promised to fight for these people, not punish them."

At last a strong emotion ripped across Jace's face, "As if I am ignorant of that! As if that is not likely why I have been chosen!" He broke off and swallowed gruffly before continuing in a sterner, lower voice, "Things threaten to get out of hand and you know Valentine would rather sever his right hand before he surrenders control. If he lost control for even a second… people are talking and he has started to look weak. I dismissed any rumours I heard about my ascent or marriage, knowing them all to be untrue, but even those which lack substance can be dangerous." He shook his head, "I do not want to do this. Yes, I said I would try to help the commoners' cause. But I swore to serve and protect Clary first. What threatens her father threatens her, as it does me. I am Duke of Broceland in name alone and only that much with the King's blessing. My wife is my responsibility. I have to provide for her and keep her from any harm. All of which can only be achieved if I am in His Majesty's good graces."

A pettier man may have commented that having Clary Morgenstern as his bedwarmer was not such a consolation for dirtying one's hands at Valentine's bidding after all. Alec, on the other hand, simply chafed his hands together, thinking furiously. Not long ago Jace would have resisted this order with everything he had. But he was not the man he had once been. Alec found himself thinking of an old marriage custom he had once read of, when the bride and groom were handfast with their hands tied together at the ceremony to symbolise the binding of their union. Now his friend's hands were indeed tied, by both his marriage and by his title. Neither of which had been an empty reward, not that Alec had ever anticipated it was. By welcoming Jace into the folds of his family Valentine was neutralising the last Herondale threat. Using Jace to dispatch his other enemies was the final move in a very long game.

Leaving Alec Lightwood to decide once and for all where he stood in all of this. He was not a reckless man by any stretch of the imagination, although even if he had been such a streak would have paled when compared to Jace's long ago. Alec calculated his moves before he made them. Mostly.

"You know I would follow you anywhere."

Jace's eyes sparked with disbelief, "No. Not to this hell."

"Especially to this hell."

His friend tutted, "Just because I am to lose what is left of my honour does not mean you have to do so with me."

"Yet if I break my promise to stand with you I could no longer call myself a man of my word either."

"God damn you Alec, why do you always have to make sense?"

Laughing humourlessly, Alec shrugged, "Would that I could take my own advice every once in a while."

He glanced back to Jace's unhappy, terse face, "You are sure you have no choice in this?"

"None whatsoever. I am beginning to believe the one thing none of us ever had in this was a choice."

"There is always a choice, if only to refuse," Alec maintained stubbornly. "You always, _always_ have your own mind. The only question is whether or not you act upon it."

Jace returned to rubbing his eyes instead of answering, leaving Alec struck by the slump to his shoulders. These past few weeks he had grown so used to seeing Jace lively and joyful. Telling Clary he was to be parted from her must have taken every bit of that vigour out of him.

"Well, in this I dare not refuse. I might be the King's son by marriage but marriages are easily undone, especially in the early days. I do not have the right friends or any leverage at the moment. I am not in a position to refuse, or have a mind of my own in the matter." He pushed his agitated fingers through his hair, the way he always did when he was thinking ahead or perplexed. "But, God willing, when we return I shall have to see about remedying that position." His eyes skid to the sealed door before continuing in a mutter, "I have no intention of being powerlessly pushed to the next square in another man's game again."

- _00000000000000-_

* * *

 ** _A/N: SCREW YOU VALENTINE. I think I'm going to get that printed on a t-shirt._**

 ** _I_** ** _hope you had a better Christmas than Clary and Jace just did. Also domestic clace was so much fun to write, I should do that more often. Then again, I could always make them suffer some more, and for the sake of the overall story that is exactly what I intend to do. Which says a lot about me as a person... Anyway thank you so much for reading! xx_**


	24. Mea Culpa

**_A/N: I despise the following with every ounce of my being. That melodramatic statement alone ought to reassure you that I am still alive and have not in fact been abducted by aliens and/or replaced by a clone. Sadly._**

 ** _I have, however, had some of the most stressful few weeks of my existence, but what can you do? The main thing is I am still scraping through life. And now the whining has consolidated my identity... on with the story._**

 ** _I have sat on this chapter for... *Edward Cullen voice* "a while" now, waiting for it to rewrite itself into adequacy. It has had the audacity to defy me. So here we are._**

 ** _Also, the next few chapters will be pretty Clace centric, mainly because its with them that the real game-changer is going to come, but I have got some Malec niceness and cool stuff for Izzy and Simon planned too. :)_**

 _-00000000000000-_

* * *

 _PART II: PLAYERS (1537-1540)_

 _Mea Culpa_

 ** _Hevrest, Southern Broceland, January 1537_**

Ironically, the sky was the loveliest shade of violet. The days here went from white, to pink and finally from purple to black, each slipping effortlessly and almost unnoticeably into the other. But this boy's eyes were a rarity, one of that special kind which felt each shift in the day's lighting as easily as he felt the shift from a warm room to a cold one. He could track the merest slither of colour in any situation- but that was only half his skill. His real talent lay in his knack of remembering how each moment looked and holding that picture with perfect clarity in his mind's eye until he could translate those colours to canvas. He was a fanciful boy, and an odd one, keeping so carefully closeted within himself and holding those vivid, vivacious thoughts to himself. He might be balanced on the back of the kindling cart but his mind was elsewhere, of that you could be sure.

Bemused as he was with the boy's interests, or rather lack of interest in anything concrete and practical, his father tolerated them. Mainly because he had been his mother's favourite and she had always indulged this playing with charcoal and paints. With the poor woman scarce cold in her grave, the Duke could not deprive the child of anything else. He had started to gradually work towards toughing his boy up, as well as encouraging him to focus his energy into something other than his damn drawings. "He has but turned eleven," The Duchess would reprimand, "Let him be a child. He will grow up soon enough." Be that as it may, the process was not occurring quick enough for the Duke's liking. He would have to arrange a wardship soon and he could not very well pack off a boy with his head in the clouds and not a scrap of life sense to another noble family. Hence the impetus for bringing him along on today's expedition.

Lyn was famed for its stunning lakes and lush farmland, but for the annual timber haul one had to traipse all the way up over the border with Broceland and buy their wood from one of the huge forest's lumberjacks. It was an inconvenient and time consuming stomp north, but since his wife's passing the Duke was finding any excuses at all to escape their house. The longer he could spend away from the home they had shared together and the wailing babe she'd left behind, the inescapable proof of the role _he_ had played in her death, the better.

However, as he had never personally made the journey before nothing had prepared the Duke for the cold of the winter further north. Things were by no means warm in his southern counties but compared to the, raw, bitter air here its climate looked practically Mediterranean. The nights fell quicker too, though it had yet to turn the fifth hour after noon and already it was fast growing dark.

That captivated the boy hunched over the lantern light in the empty cart, scrabbling at a spare scrap of parchment with a chip of charcoal. He absorbed how the dark silhouettes of the trees stood out, their bare branches like fingers clawing against the lavender-grey sky. At least, he had only ever heard them described as such, according to his elder brother, who fancied himself a poet. But they did not look like fingers, not really. They were too thin. More like cracks of shadow, or even the mad tangle of a maid's hair.

His pondering was interrupted too soon by the return of his father. Having pulled them to a halt to relieve himself the Duke now trudged back loudly, twigs snapping under him while he clapped at his hands to warm them.

"Julian," he barked, causing his son to leap to attention, "Put that away would you? If you don not pitch off the cart, your eyes will give out trying to work in this dark." His son made no reply, tenderly folding up his sketch and tucking it obediently into his pocket.

"Are we nearly there?" He asked now of the driver who looked to have dozed off. Slapping unashamedly at his own cheeks to rejuvenate himself, their servant made some huffing answer, "Aye, the tavern is only a half hour or so off."

"Are you sure?" Andrew asked drily as he swung himself back into his seat. "As I recall you said as much an hour ago." They lurched onwards regardless, the two men still wrangling their way through a pointless argument. They were gripped in it fiercely enough that they failed to notice the thinning of the trees and the pinpricks of torchlight that they were fast approaching. The closer they came the bigger those yellow beads became and soon voices were detectable too.

"Father," Julian started, scrabbling his way on his hands and knees along the rocking deck of the cart, "Father!"

Eventually, when his son was almost on top of him and he had to pay heed, the Duke turned his head. "What is it?"

"Look!"

Andrew narrowed his eyes and tilted forward, still unable to make out what exactly they were riding into. "The town? We must be at Hevrest at last."

"Not enough light," Julian protested keenly, "It is only a line of torches." Sure enough, not a half mile down the road they were forced to stop again, this time by a portly, red faced man in the uniform of a town magistrate. "Who goes there?"

"Make way at once for His Grace the Duke," Their driver called out immediately from habit.

"Impossible!" The magistrate disputed, sticking out his round chest before launching into a tirade. Julian had already lost interest, nose twitching as he tried to detect what the tang on the crisp air was. He had already identified the reek of beer off their stout, self-important barrier, but not the accompanying, more powerful odour.

"No, The Duke of Lyn, you dunderhead! Who else?" Andrew was presently thundering.

"Beg pardon Your Grace," The magistrate grumbled, appearing not altogether convinced of their identity, "But I have strict orders from the Duke of _Broceland_ that no one is to pass this way. None can interfere with the King's justice."

"All that is being interfered with here is my fireplace," Andrew muttered irritably. Then he added, louder, "How am I supposed to reach the village then? I need a room tonight for myself and my son. It is dark and we are miles from home."

Before he could receive a reply, a shrill, piercing cry pierced the shadows. For the second time, Julian felt every muscle in his body jerk and then tense.

"What the devil-" The Duke began, only to be interrupted again by a clamour of spiked, angry voices and another wail, petering off into noisy sobs. Another decidedly female voice rose, this one swelling with a flood of curses.

"Get out of the way, man!" Andrew boomed now, jumping down from the cart and marching in the direction of the fray, an arm shooting out to latch onto his son en route. Julian was subsequently hauled off the cart and trailed along, confused and disconcerted. "We are gentlemen! Where there are ladies audibly in distress we needs must lend whatever aid we can," His father insisted, easily shoving the magistrate out of his way. The other man crumpled upon the contact, crashing down onto his backside. It might have been funny, but nothing about the situation seemed to warrant laughter.

It quickly become apparent just how far from funny any of this was. Upon making their way into ring of damning torchlight, the Blackthorn men instantly froze, watching horror struck and helpless as the grotesque tableau before them unfolded. There were armed men forcing back a small gaggle of yammering, distraught women. One, not very old- hardly twenty- was clinging to another, taller girl and weeping hideously, unable to form any other noise besides a broken, repetitive "No!"

The woman they had heard from the road was still throatily swearing and calling for divine vengeance, while being thrust bodily backward by two more soldiers, literally kicking and screaming. The others were grimly pasty-faced, red eyed and shaking their heads, speechless. "Away! Away to your homes!" One of the armoured men bellowed, as if he were shooing a yard full of scavenging cats and not a group of anguished women. Slowly, dizzily now the terrible smell from earlier was at its most overpowering, Julian turned to see the cause of their upset.

Before now, their cook at Bellgate had taken him up to the tower loft, to the pigeon coop. He had loved it there, in spite of the heady stink of animal excrement. He found their low rumbling coos and hoots soothing and he liked feeling the sturdy warmth of their plump, feathered little bodies in his cupped palms. Now Julian remembered why he no longer went up there, why he also avoided the chicken pens and duck ponds. It was impossible, one you had seen it, to erase the picture of the limp rows of birds no longer warm and noisy, but hanging lifelessly from their necks in the cool store house.

It was the same now, facing the row of unmoving, dangling bodies. Only worse. They were not protesting the hanging, no, that had taken place some time ago. The real grievance was that the remains of some ten men were still hanging untended from the boughs of the nearby trees. Rotting.

Leaving the women who loved them left unable to do anything but stand here every day, every night too possibly, protesting with their presence. Offering in devastated solidarity whatever they could: their tears, their curses, or far more chillingly- their damning silence.

That smell, the sight, the unrelenting sobs and screams of their women...

At last, the hands of the closest guard closed on the shoulders of the stunned boy who had no idea he and his family had only begun to taste their unjust share of the King's justice, and hauled him backwards. With his cold face warming slowly with tears, Julian pitched forward and struggled with all the strength he had- and in vain- for what could he do even had he the freedom of his body? Trapped in a nightmare he could do nothing more than subside into a fit of helpless sobs as he was dragged out of the torchlight and back into the dark.

 _-0000000000000-_

* * *

 _ **Princewater Palace, Alicante, January 1537** _

Isabelle had lost count of how many times she had paced around this little fountain. She was starting to loathe that strumpet of a scantily clad water nymph who pranced shamelessly in the stream of falling water. Or rather would have, had the water not been frozen solid.

She stomped around in circles to ward off the worst of the chill, her breath steaming in front of lips and billowing over her shoulder as a ghostly banner and fingers clenched tight inside the sable muff her mother had gifted her for Christmas. It was a hand me down, of course, but Isabelle had accepted without complaint. Though she knew it to be a sobering reminder of how desperate their situation, it did keep her hands warm. Not that such small comforts were enough to settle her mind this morning.

It was unusual for her to be out of bed at such an early hour, let alone out of doors, but she needed a time and a place no one would stumble upon for this meeting. The dead, icy gardens would not be in use so soon after dawn. There were no gardeners this time of year and with the paths so frozen they were more like the surface of a bottle than gravel, much too treacherous for any lord or lady's early morning stroll.

This slip of ground had been sheltered from the worst of the frost by the rim of the fountain bowl, so it would suffice for Isabelle's pacing. She feared that if she did not move she would perish in the cold. _But think_ , she tried to cheer herself, _what a pretty addition to the fountain you would make_.

Reliably, while he might be late, Simon made a grand entrance. And of course, by grand she meant that he made a fool of himself, trying to stride meaningfully toward her and consequently losing his footing on a patch of ice and plummeting downwards. She would have laughed, but she was close enough to hear the sickening crunch as he struck the ground face first. "Saints, have mercy!" she exclaimed, scurrying as cautiously as she could over the sparkling lawns to where he lay. "Are you well?" She reached out to help him, but Simon recoiled. "Unhand me! I am fine!"

Isabelle retracted her hands, but stayed scowling, "Are you quite certain?" His insistence was decidedly undermined by the fact his nose did not look like it should be that shape and was bleeding profusely. His upper lip and the sides of his cheeks were stained bright red. "Yes!" Simon sniffed, pressing his hands, then his sleeve to his face. Feebly, Isabelle added her kerchief into the mix. For a moment, Simon resisted, but then the blood began to seep through his fingers. He accepted her offering.

"Christ," Isabelle tutted, "You need that examined. It looks broken."

"It shall have to stay broken a while longer," Simon declared with muffled irritation, which it took Isabelle a moment to work out. "I need to speak with you."

"Simon it can wait-"

"No."

Isabelle started. It was the most forcefully he had ever spoken to her.

"Is it an explanation as to why you have not spoken to me since Christmas? An apology mayhap?" She did not have to pretend her umbrage, that came perfectly naturally. God help her, she had missed him. The absence she had felt every bit as keenly as Alec or Jace's. With no diversion beyond a moping Clary and her mother's hectic plotting (Jonathan, thank God, had gone back to Edom after the Yuletide season ended while Mayrse had inexplicably lingered) Izzy had found herself longing for his easy companionship.

He paused his frantic mopping to try and make himself look serious. "I have my reasons for giving you a wide berth." He swallowed, allowing his eyes to drift everywhere other than her face.

"Isabelle" Now she truly was on edge. No Izzy, no Iz. Plain, grave Isabelle. He never called her that. Certainly not with so much distance in his voice.

"I stopped by your chambers just before Christmas. I cannot remember why exactly- I had found or heard something I wanted to share with you. When I got there, I halted in the doorway. The doors were closed and there were voices within. I should have left, I promise you I meant to, but as I turned to go I properly heard what you were saying."

Impatient, anxious, Isabelle snapped her fingers. "And?"

"Your mother was speaking to you. Well I feel _speaking_ is not the proper word…."

Isabelle froze all over and not from the frigid temperature, though the chill betwixt them had just intensified tenfold. Her breath stopped in her chest and her back seized up so gravely it started to ache.

"Simon…" She had nothing to say, not really, but she needed to halt his words there and then.

Now he did look at her. "I knew you had your secrets. I let you keep them, respected what you did not say as much as what you did. I even conceived that there was something you were running from. But I had no idea…"

Isabelle tried and failed to summon words several times. It was now a blessing that half Simon's face was screened. She did not think she could bear the full force of his judgement. She would rather face the full intensity of a Church court in that moment than have to face the astounded disappointment of the young man before her.

"You really would do anything to avoid marriage." He stated with quiet disgust. "I suppose after all that occurred in Paris, encouraging the lute player to court you is hardly a scandal. It is certainly a dalliance that requires decidedly less effort and risk."

To think, such abhorrence from dear, sweet Simon who knew not the half of it. How could she tell him? Isabelle was shaking all over under the layers she had heaped on herself, fighting back the outpouring of an explanation and mayhap even tears, though she would choke to death before she released a sob over any man. For what it was worth, she had no rehearsed explanation.

Not that he was like to deem it satisfactory. Not that it mattered.

Simon was already looking at her as though he saw at last the type of girl she was and he did not like her a bit. The type of girl he _thought_ she was, she tried to comfort herself by correcting.

Isabelle Lightwood did not care a jot for the opinions of others, she strove to convince herself for the thousandth time. After all, she could lie to everyone but herself. Of course she cared what others thought of her: she lived off it, thrived on it. She had no merit beyond being the girl someone who mattered thought of. "You do not understand," she clipped out hoarsely at last, "You never will."

"No," Simon agreed, moving his palms to reveal a grimace, not one entirely born of his present physical pain, she would hazard. He shook his head slowly, already beginning to retreat from her, "I do not expect I will understand. I do not think I want to."

Therein lay the real blow. She could not be walked away from, not by anyone. So Isabelle whipped away first, gratefully turning her back on him and charging away. Anything but stand there and watch him leave her. Alongside her shame coursed a scalded fury now. Good. She set about stoking that ire viciously, for the anger she could deal with. The anger was the safest and the most acceptable of her current emotions.

Who was he to stand there and judge her anyway? He was only the boy she had suffered as a jest, a distraction. The damned lute player. A nobody, a nothing.

Yet as she scurried back toward the palace, frost bitten grass cracking underfoot, it did not feel like a nobody had hurt her.

 _-0000000000000-_

* * *

 ** _Chapeltoute Hall, Southern Alicante, April 1537_**

They were sorry times indeed when Luke found he would rather be called to the King's chambers on a matter of business rather than for pleasure. Yet here he was, concealing dismay as Valentine finally swept away the plans for a new palace which had been crowding his table and waved the master builder on his merry way, leaving them alone together. His Majesty was in fine fettle, insisting Luke stay in his seat and take a drink with him. As it happened, Valentine's dark moods were more and more infrequent these days, something Luke was reluctantly grateful for. Partially because he too heard the reports of slaughter in the shires and so knew all too well what was finally easing the worries that had troubled his monarch so long. Secondly, and- though it shamed him to admit it- more so, Luke was aggravated because he also knew that Jocelyn played no small part in keeping her husband in high spirits. That said a great deal about the petty, selfish man Luke truly was, yet he wearied of denying it. The knowledge returned woeful memories of the days when Jocelyn were the only one who could smooth His Majesty's frown away and temper his foulest moods. After so long, after all that had happened since, it left the King's oldest advisor feeling truly sickened to his core, knowing they were back precisely where they had started.

Well, almost.

Now Jocelyn knew the man she was married to and loathed him for it. And though that may make all the difference to Luke that was the only impact it had, as Valentine damn well knew. It would not appear to trouble him at all that Jocelyn still blanched when he touched her, or that her mouth always tightened into a clamped, harsh line and she needed a sequence of composing breaths before she could make any reply to him.

In fact, Luke strongly suspected his king was beyond caring if his wife loved him, that she was here at all denoted a surrender great enough to placate him. He had won. Even after a decade she had come crawling back to him. All those lonely nights, every time he had to sit beside an empty throne, for Valentine it was all worth it now- his Jocelyn had relented in the end and come home, just as he had always known she would.

Leaving Luke Graymark the man pathetic enough to lose the love of his life to Valentine Morgenstern not once, but twice. Not even a cup from the King's finest vintage was chasing the bitterness of that off his tongue anytime soon.

Still, he made himself sit still and keep sipping, as though the silence between Valentine and himself were comfortable. Oddly in tune with the line of sour wistfulness carrying his mind, Valentine curled his finger around the stem of his goblet and surveyed his friend keenly, "Why not marry?"

"What?" Luke eventually spluttered out past his wine, clumsily dabbing at his mouth with his sleeve in the aftermath.

Valentine's rolled his shoulders back in a shrug, "You ought to take a wife, my friend."

 _Do you recommend one?_ Luke wondered mutinously. Aloud, he ventured a nonchalant chuckle and shook his head, "You enjoyed playing matchmaker with Clary that much?"

Again Valentine's eyes fluttered upwards casually and then back to Luke, tapping out a tune against the arm of his chair. He continued in that same blasé manner, "It merely strikes me as odd you have not looked for a marriage yet."

Luke's mind flew back to a dim parlour, Granville Fairchild's rattling cough and sympathetic eyes as the young man before him gruffly and awkwardly saved him the difficulty of delivering a refusal, instead formally withdrawing his suit for his daughter's hand. Knowing even as his heart broke he had to do so, to save himself from the embarrassment of hearing a denial on the tongue of a man he loved like a second father. All the while sending out a silent prayer of gratitude that Jocelyn need never know he asked. What choice had he? He could not keep pursuing the woman his King wanted. Better, he'd believed, to graciously and covertly accept defeat.

The existence of that suit, as far as anyone need know, died with the queen's father. Luke wished he could say he had never looked back.

For the moment, he had to look forward, at his scheming monarch. Valentine noted his reluctance to speak and chose to misinterpret it, "Have you yet to meet a worthy woman?"

"Yet to meet a woman deserving to be bound to me," Luke agreed honestly enough.

Valentine kept smirking, "What of that maid of yours? The one you brought to court, for Clarissa."

Luke almost choked, "Maia? Good God, no."

"No? Was that not why you brought her here? It would be a good match, given her father was a business associate of yours."

"A friend of mine. He charged me with looking to her welfare and her shares in his property after he died."

"A blessing if ever I heard one _."_

 _An abuse of trust, more like_ , Luke thought, every part of him rankled at the thought of wedding the girl he had been trusted with the upbringing of. A girl young enough to be his daughter, as was proven by her serving Valentine's. He was speechless, shaking his head slowly and struggling to bite back a torrent of incredulous laughter.

"Many a man would interpret that dying wish as such anyway," Valentine continued, teasingly, Luke prayed. "How better to care for the pretty maid and her inheritance than marriage?"

"Maia is a clever girl" Luke shrugged, "In time she will manage her affairs well enough, with or without me. I will guide her, of course, but I would rather she make her own way in the world."

"Character building," Valentine commented wryly, but the gentlemen were spared a continuation of the issue by the arrival of the Cardinal.

Disconcerted as he was, Luke let his fingers curl back in on themselves into a fist in his lap, reflecting that in all his experiences in recent months the Cardinal's presence never boded well. He was beginning to perpetually establish himself in the Lord of Aconite's mind as the crucifix wielding harbinger of doom.

"Majesty," he accepted the seat Valentine gestured to.

"Welcome, Your Eminence. We were just discussing the benefits of a holy sacrament."

"Which one?" Enoch enquired, taking gladly with the question the proffered wine glass. That indulgence, it would seem, was allowed.

"Marriage."

The Cardinal fought a losing battle against a cringe for a brief time and then tossed back another mouthful of fine Spanish vintage. Enoch's terror of all things feminine or sexual was an ongoing joke between the King's nobles, since it was rare that a cleric could be found with such an aversion to lechery. Lord have mercy, Enoch saw Eve in every woman he encountered. The vaguest mention of marital union turned the holy man's stomach and got him uncomfortably hot under his stiff clerical collar.

Valentine left his third guest wriggling in his seat a little longer before graciously turning the subject, "But enough of that. Speaking of the sacraments, there is another I anticipate you will be requested to perform tonight."

The Cardinal looked as though he would have gratefully bestowed extreme unction on himself just to get off the subject of wedlock. "Certainly, Sire. What would you have me do?"

His question was answered not by Valentine, but by the door to their chamber swinging open unexpectedly again. Luke was taken aback by the appearance of a young Duke of Broceland, loitering wan faced in the entryway. He had removed his cap and now wrung it between his hands like a dish rag, the corners of his mouth sternly lowered and his eyes travelling swiftly around the entirety of the room on instinct. He could not have realised he was doing it, bracing himself for an assault from any quarter and looking as though he preparing himself for the very worst.

Although Luke would wager that the very worst had already happened. He had not known the Herondale boy very long, and he had certainly not expected to like him as much he did. Thankfully, having never known his father by birth had proved no loss; Jace Herondale's bravery more than compensated for Stephen's cowardice. Though he was far from ignorant as to what the land's newest noble had been doing these past weeks, Luke was the last man who would condemn another's terrible deeds for love of Valentine. Or as was more accurately the case here, love of Valentine's daughter.

Taking in the stillness of the tense young man facing his king with a guilt bleached face, there was nothing Luke wanted to do more than put a hand on his shoulder or drop a word of comfort in his ear. To tell Jace that he had once stood before Valentine just like that, fighting self-disgust and desperation for his monarch to see all that had done for him and be glad of it. Hoping that the sale of his soul brought a good price. Sadly, Luke was not sure that in light of his current position- arguably no better than Lord Broceland's, he had any reassurances to offer worth hearing.

Whatever Luke might have thought of Stephen, that hatred was not something he would allow to pass onto his son. It was not Jace's fault he had been born of Celine Mountclaire instead of Amatis Graymark. Irrespective of any of that, he was in love with Clary. And her, Luke was certain he loved. For that reason, and many others, he wanted to tell Jace everything.

But Jocelyn forbade it. She did not trust the boy- she mistrusted his blood and his upbringing even more. Luke's plea that he may help with their plan, his attempts to remind her they needed all the allies they could garner together if they were ever to execute their scheme- all had fallen on deaf ears.

"He has not exactly proven himself," she had insisted icily.

"He is Clary's husband, whether you like it or no." Luke had reminded her with a generous helping of exasperation. "We cannot leave him oblivious to our designs forever."

"Nor will we" came the reply, alongside Jocelyn's wearied rubbing at her brow, "I agree we may need him. Or his bloodline, to be blunt about the matter. But the time for any action is not now. When that moment does come, when we do act- we will tell him then. When it is too late for him to be anything other than with us."

"Jonathan," Valentine's warm greeting blazed through Luke's wandering thoughts, and he glanced over as the King smiled at his son in law as though Jace had just returned from a minor errand rather than a rampage that would have broken a lesser man, "Welcome back."

Enoch had almost had a seizure at the Duke's unexpected entrance, his hand had flown to the ornate rosary beads hanging from his belt as they might protect him. Besides the Crown Prince, the Cardinal was the most perturbed of all the nobles by the resurrection of the old duchy. Not in the least because he had spent a portion of the summer terrorizing the young man who had, in the following months, married into the most powerful family in this country.

Luckily for him, Jace failed to note the room's other occupants at all. He stood frozen, hand clenching the back of the chair Valentine had offered to him and chest rising and falling as though he had run all the way north east to the capital on foot. Valentine plucked from his doublet a carefully stored letter, the last he had received from Jace on the road, he revealed alongside a command for a final update, "Is this dreadful matter settled at last?"

Tonelessly, Jace told him as much. The sweeping details of all that occurred fell with a precision that told it was an entirely rehearsed speech they were hearing. Not that it stopped the hairs raising on the back of Luke's neck or stopped the recently swallowed wine churning uneasily in his stomach. Valentine's only response was a measured nodding, again, as though Jace was speaking of his abilities to locate all the items on the royal shopping list. When at last all the rebellious shires had a body count, the King offered a short string of words of commendation to his faithful duke and made to rise from his seat.

"Come. Now all has ended favourably we may join this evening's feast." He bound to his feet but paused while Luke and Enoch scrambled after him, finally reading the reluctance on the Duke's face. "Clarissa will be there," Valentine offered persuasively.

Jace grew paler still, which Luke had not thought possible, "Majesty" he broke out through chapped lips, "With your permission I would retire for the evening. I am more tired than anything." Their sovereign hesitated momentarily, narrowing his eyes slightly at the younger man, before relenting with a quiet sigh, "Very well." He passed onwards through the doorway while Jace stiffly bowed again, leaving Luke and the Cardinal to tail after him and complete their ragtag Trinity.

Then, with perfect dramatic timing, as ever, Valentine paused on the threshold and raised a finger as though he had just recalled a particularly interesting fact. "Your Eminence. It almost slipped my mind. I summoned you here on the understanding my lord Broceland may want you to hear his confession."

Bewildered, Enoch swivelled to glance back at Jace, as did Luke, whereupon both were equally taken aback by the expression of tentative desperation that awaited them on Jace's face.

He blamed himself, poor boy. But thus Valentine always played it. Having others sully their hands in the hope his own soul stayed clean. He ought to say or do something for the boy, but Luke soon hatefully surrendered the prospect of that too. If he could not save himself or Jocelyn and her daughter from Valentine how could he possibly help Jace? Hurrying to the door, sobered and miserable, Luke ducked his head and made the little escape he could.

It would not be much of an absolution for the boy, at any rate he feared. Enoch looked as though he was prepared to swipe a hasty cross in the air and proclaim all absolved. God love him, it hardly mattered. Luke doubted an absolution from the Pope himself was like to ease either Jace's mind or his conscience.

 _-000000000000-_

* * *

After so long being left virtually alone at the high table Clary had taken to latching her eyes onto whatever untoward movement might occur elsewhere in the hall. Without Jace to make her laugh or Jonathan to taunt her, there was no chance of her missing a tipsy maiden spilling red wine on her new gown or an opportunistic hound snapping a chicken leg from a lax lordly hand.

She still hated eating her meals in the great hall. She despised the noise, crowd, smell and calamity, not to mention the knowledge that she was one of the main attractions in the grand performance, planted right at her father's right hand. Thankfully, the majority of her dinners could be taken in her private apartments, but Valentine liked to host regular public feasts, emphasising each time that appearance was everything. Idris needed to showcase its royal family's prosperity and good health. Therefore, each carefully selected course was designed to exhibit their wealth and eager appetites, all of which reasserted their power.

This was one of those nights, and though feeling a multitude of eyes on her rather whittled away her hunger the Duchess of Broceland reminded herself she had endured much worse and set about chewing on her carp industriously, knowing it to have been freshly caught for this Friday dined on nothing save broth and fish for the long Lenten season, Clary had no serious appetite for the fare and so welcomed her first diversion from needless small talk with the lucky nobles who had been invited to dine at the King's table. With her keen eyes sharpened by boredom, she espied the steward making his way toward the doors with the platter immediately, confirming the suspicions she had begun to harbour an hour or so ago.

She caught the nearby Marques of Edgehunt's eye, but before she could make any enquiries he obliged her with an oblique smile, adding a glance laden with meaning, "Serving the Duke I expect."

Clary's breath caught in the back of her throat and she had to forcibly beat back the elated smile that was springing to her lips at the thought.

"Ah, he _has_ returned then?" She asked somewhat smugly, her lips aching with the effort of restraining a grin.

"Some hour hence, Madam," Penhallow confirmed.

Clary nodded and took another small sip from her goblet and allowed her gaze to dart to her father's seat, her happiness significantly diluted by the realisation that Valentine had left her in the dark once again. He had to be aware Jace had arrived home but he had yet to breathe a word of it to her. Clearly Valentine was as enamoured with his secrets as ever. No matter how big or small, he hated to relinquish any information he had that she did not. Leaving people ignorant was one of many things which made him feel powerful. Regardless, keeping word of her husband's safe return from her was needlessly callous.

Feeling the weight of her judgment, the King turned his head to her, "Clarissa?" he softly invited from question in her eyes.

"I thought I glimpsed Wayfarer in the courtyard earlier," she stated, keeping her tone deliberately as light as possible. Her father raised a single white eyebrow in enquiry. "Jace's horse" she clarified briskly, with another affectedly nonchalant bite.

"Ah," Valentine dropped his eyes and began to wipe his hands on the cloth provided, pulling it off his shoulder and unto the table and only returning his attention to Clary when he was sure his fingers were thoroughly clean, "You did. I heard from him at the start of the week, when he told me he was only a few days from the capital." Clary experienced a momentary pang of discomfort. Jace had written to her around the same time, making no mention of being so close to home. She rapidly swallowed back any misgivings and held her father's stare. If her husband had neglected to tell her he was coming it would have been deliberate, he only sought to surprise her. Well that he had.

"Then surely he has been back at least an hour." Then the epiphany dawned, "Which is why you were delayed in arriving here."

Her father's cheek twitched, either from a restrained smile or annoyance, Clary was not sure. "He has," he informed her in a low voice, pointedly looking over her shoulder and smiling at whoever she saw there. Clary let her hands fall into her lap and clenched her fists under the table, she would not let him brush her off tonight so easily. "And it did not occur to you to inform me?"

Valentine sighed, reluctantly focusing on her again as if she were a petulant child about to throw a tantrum, rather than a woman with a just complaint. "I do not see the need to dispatch a page each time someone passes through the palace gates, Clarissa."

"My husband is not just anyone," Clary shot back, temper crackling.

Valentine raised his eyes to heaven, as though her questions sorely tested his patience, "Lower your voice. There is no need for a great exhibition."

Clary struggled to quell and retract a retort. His Majesty marginally declined his head in approval and rewarded her peace with an elaboration, "Jonathan declined an invitation to eat with us."

Slowly the young Duchess loosened her fingers and shot Isabelle a reassuring smile, her lady had noted the high colour in her cheeks with concern and slid her eyes meaningfully from Clary to the King and back again, subtly tilting her head to convey a willingness to intervene. Clary pinned a smile back on her face and gave her head the smallest of shakes. Thankfully no one else seemed to have noticed the disharmony between the two royals, although she did live at a court of skilled actors. Still, she longed to speak with Izzy, who also deserved to know her brother was back. Most of all, she longed to rush upstairs and see Jace for herself.

Reading her thoughts Valentine waved away the servant pouring more wine and spoke again, "If you must know, I withheld news of his return because I needed to speak with him first. I needed his report first hand, before you distracted him and the two of you hurried off together." He laughed as if she had just told him some mighty jest and gestured so only she could see at the stout ambassador from Lorraine peering up at them from one of the lower tables, "And I need you to be seen sitting with me without the merest hint of discord between us. Which I knew you would not, had you discovered who was in your chamber."

Clary could not very well argue with that, though it did not remove the sting. If only smiling at mealtimes was could indeed repair this family. "Fear not. Once this meal is over you may have Jonathan all to yourself once more." The not-so-hidden meaning behind the words had the colour rising in Clary's cheeks again and set her squirming on the bench at her father's blunt suggestiveness. Now that her husband was back Valentine was eagerly anticipating the baby he already had such great expectations of.

After waiting over a full month to see Jace she could wait she supposed she could make herself wait a little longer. So she smiled as pleasantly as was humanly possible and engaged in the chatter of the surrounding table with her finest manners and what little charm she had. Which mercifully paid off, soon after the plates were cleared away Valentine consented to Clary's retirement, rising from his seat to kiss her goodnight.

To all onlookers, including those who would report to the Archduke of Lorraine, Valentine was in no way doubting his newly raised Duke and Duchess of Broceland. Clary did not care about any of that- let Valentine worry about her scorned former suitor, she had waited long enough for this reunion. Hurrying up the stairs with her ladies behind her she pulled Izzy to her shoulder long enough to inform her of recent developments and then dismissed them all upon reaching her presence chamber.

By that point the news of the Duke's return had spread like wildfire and the early dismissal was all the confirmation required. "But surely Your Grace needs some assistance-" an uncomprehending younger maid began before Isabelle snickered, "Her Grace will have enough assistance getting undressed this evening." On any other occasion Clary would have scolded her, but tonight she just wanted rid of all of these women. Besides, she was harbouring hopes to that effect herself. She had spent too long in her lonely bed. In the few short weeks they had been together following their wedding, she had only been _with_ Jace a handful of times.

Pressing her palms to the sleek wood she shoved the doors open and hastened into her bedchamber expectantly- her empty bedchamber. Frowning, she slowly pivoted, scanning her surroundings for any evidence of Jace or an explanation for his absence. Oddly, she could find no sign of him at all. Everything was precisely as she had left it earlier, right down to the undisturbed book laying by her pillow.

Despite the prickling uneasiness in her bones, Clary dragged her feet back across the room and out into the narrow corridor that connected her chamber to Jace's, or rather the one that had been assigned to him but had been left vacant.

Until tonight it would appear. Letting herself in she found every candle in the room lit and the fire blazing. Then she took stock of the abandoned pair of riding boots tucked under a chair and an untouched plate of food- the same she had seen leaving the hall what already felt like years ago- balanced on the little table beside it. The accompanying jug of ale had not been dealt the same neglect, upon closer inspection she found there was only a dribble of liquid left in it. Through the half-open door to his outer chamber she could hear voices, one familiar and commanding, the other a meekly assenting grumble that sounded like an obedient "Your Grace" before there came the sound of a shuffled retreat and a closed door. Clary counted ten heartbeats in the subsequent silence before deciding to announce her presence, "Jace?" she called out uncertainly.

A moment later he came into view, looking little different to how she remembered him, blond hair damp from a recent wash and a few days of fair stubble along his jaw. It wasn't until he crossed the threshold to abruptly stop and stare at her that Clary allowed herself to truly concede aught was amiss.

On the many occasions she had allowed herself to imagine their reunion she had always expected that he would rush to embrace her, or put his hand in hers and pull her away instantly from prying eyes… she at least expected him to smile. The Jace she found herself facing now did not move a muscle, in fact he barely blinked. He kept staring her down with that blank gold gaze and the only kind of emotion she could discern from his face was a tension that betokened, if anything, dread.

"You are home," she floundered to the obvious, desperate only to end the fraught silence between them.

"Yes," he agreed faintly, wrapping his arms around each other instead of her and holding them tight to his chest.

Clary swallowed past her dry mouth. "I did not know. I would have come sooner but my father failed to tell me…" She trailed off at his unresponsiveness, frantically gripping her fingers together until they went numb, "How was your journey?" She tried again with the feeble enquiry.

"Long," he responded, in a clipped voice that closed off any conversation. Clary took an instinctive step back, partly from discomfort. After all the tenderness they had shared before he left, after all they had endured in the past few months to see him so remote now was almost physically painful. She had come so far, getting him to admit her to his heart. She thought that dismantling the walls around his heart once would suffice. God knew it had been effort enough.

Yet now, despite the roaring red flames in the grate mere feet away from her Clary felt the chill in the room. She was the wife he had adored, rescued and fought for, but he was lingering in the doorway, treating her as he might a stranger and looking as though he longed for nothing more than to bolt from her.

"What are you doing here?" She blurted out, discomforted enough to voice the question she really wanted to ask.

"Is it not home?" he asked distantly, "You said so. The royal family tends to reside in Alicante."

"No I meant _here_. In these rooms."

"They are my rooms."

"Yes I know but-"

"Clary," The way he spoke her name, flatly and completely devoid of the usual affection, halted her immediately. "I am tired. I just want to sleep."

To another woman, to another couple, it all might have sounded reasonable enough. But with Jace, her being pushed away thus was unbearable. Clary felt her throat begin to thicken at his brusqueness. She cleared it as best she could, but when she spoke her voice still wavered detestably, "And you cannot do that in my bed?"

Jace did not volunteer a response, which was answer enough. In any other circumstance she might have quipped about him fearing her inability to keep her hands to herself for one night but here it felt inappropriate. Things between them felt so strained and suddenly fragile. Much as she hated this taciturnity she was afraid of breaking it, fearing that pushing him to speak to her now would shatter more than the silence.

"I am tired," he repeated dully and the words struck her like a blow to the chest. She was no fool- she knew she was being sent away. They had quarrelled before of course, but even in their worst clashes there had been feeling. He had never attempted to freeze her out before. She would have thought that after experiencing all he had Jace should be glad to throw himself into her arms and forget the whole thing. That was why Valentine had sent her up here, after all. So she could kiss it better and remind Jace of how she could make it worth doing her father's bidding.

In the very least, he should want to talk about it. She attempted to urge him to do as much, "Jace, speak to me. You cannot carry all of it around…"

Something within Jace finally cracked, "How much clearer need I be? Leave, Clary!"

Moments ago she had thought she would be glad of any force of emotion from him, even anger, but when he did snap it wounded her. She took another reeling step, not backwards but forwards. She found herself reaching for him, clutching at him in the vain hope she could pull him back to her. "Why should I when-"

Jace caught at her wrists before she could reach him and shoved her away, leaping back like her touch had scalded him. "Because I am telling you to!" He shouted in earnest this time, "Why can you not, just once in your life, do as you are bid?!"

Clary recoiled quicker than she would have done had he slapped her, the fingers of her right had curling around her left wrist just as his had. She realised dazedly that the reddened skin there hurt. He had hurt her.

Because she had hurt him. He blamed her for all of it. And had he not reason to? Were it not for her he would never have had to return to Idris, back to the land of all his demons. Were it not for her, for loving her, Valentine would not be able to wield the influence over Jace he did.

Once the epiphany struck, she could not bear it any longer. Clary turned and fled from him.

The next she knew she was bursting back into her own rooms and colliding with Rebecca, who must have been on her way to find her. "Your Grace?" the older girl took one look at Clary's face and her eyes flared with alarm, "Clary? What is it? I heard shouting- are you alright?"

Clary shook her head fearfully "I- It was f-foolish of me to think- to think that- nothing would change." Forgetting all pretences of formality her friend reached for her. It was only as Clary's face met the smooth velvet of Becky's shoulder that she let the tears fall in earnest.

 _-000000000000-_

* * *

Every night it was the same. The unremarkable grey sky and frosty grass. The pool of churned, bland blackened earth by the roots. Echoing, brazen cawing as crows flapped impatiently in the branches of nearby trees. The only varying factor was the face at the foot of the tree. Sometimes it was the Prince leering, otherwise it was the King, shaking his head with unsurprised disappointment. Behind him Isabelle always screams helplessly, her beautiful face stained with tears as she weeps without restraint, but never any sign of Alec. The final proof that this time no one was coming to save him.

Jace was almost glad when the rope tightened and his body swung forward without his command, without any trace of fight. Never was there the crack of a broken neck. No, it went on without that mercy. It had to be the choking, merciless noose, closing like a particularly calloused hand around his throat. It was agony, it was never going to end…

Instead of his blood cutting off to numbness it flared under his skin like fire, until he could feel every muscle in his body, bunched in pain and contracting breathlessly.

Still, by now he knew it was almost over. Still, he knew the worst was yet to come.

As his body finally started to convulse, his watering eyes inevitably rolled back in his head, until he could see with impossible clarity the prone body that hung beside him. First the cracked, broken and bloody hands dangling at her sides, smearing the skirt of the tattered gold wedding gown. He forced himself to look at her face, unable to ignore the unnatural angle her head lay at. Into the glassy and unseeing green gaze, still trained accusingly on his…

With a strangled, incoherent cry, Jace shot upwards, left hand shooting instantly to his neck. After managing several gulping, painful breaths he forced himself to run his fingers along his unmarked, untouched throat. Meanwhile his right arm flew across the rumpled sheets to the cool, empty side of the bed. Reassurance: she was not here. She was safe. More gasping, then he made himself move. Scrabbling his way out from under the sheets and to the foot of the bed, then fumbling with shaking fingers until he could free the empty chamber pot from under it. Just in time, for then the retching started.

When that finally abated he Jace felt more ill than ever. Shivering, he pried the sweat damp nightshirt off his skin and then shucked it off. Then, not bothering to try and seek out another in the dark, he clambered back into bed naked.

He was no stranger to nightmares. Ever since he had been old enough to appreciate how close his life was to becoming one at any given moment they had plagued him. He should not have expected to emerge from his time being the King's butcher unscathed. Nor had he. The first batch of these night horrors had been born right out of those he had to live through, those he had to _create_ during the day. Rows after rows of mercilessly hung men and boys, since anyone older than sixteen was old enough for punishment according to the royal edict still folded in his saddlebag. But the women, their anger, betrayal, grief, disgust… they had haunted him most. Until this new nightly hell.

It was worse, Jace thought hollowly, drawing his hands over his cold, clammy face. God, this was so much worse.

"What am I? What have I done?" His broken, dry lips mouthed soundlessly. _What I had to_ the timidly answering whisper piped up in his mind on queue.

 _I did what I had to I had no choice I did what I had to I had no choice I did what I had to._

On and on it went like that, like it did every night, unrelenting and unconvincing. Until dawn.

 _-00000000000-_

* * *

 ** _A/N: Well I hope we're all enjoying a nice stay in angst central. Some difficulties will be resolved quickly, I promise, but others not so much- with far reaching impact._**

 ** _We have turned a corner in the tale though. I honestly don't think that when I first sat down to start this I fully comprehended what a ma_** ** _mmoth task I had in store for myself. I do have lots more to come and I also aim to expand the scope of the story somewhat, getting a real taste of what Idris is like in general and how that impacts our main characters and vice versa. Religion and its impact on politics will become a major issue. I'm also starting to introduce some wider characters around the throne; like the Blackthorns who are next in line after the Herondales,and those who are associated with them (I think you know who in particular I mean). Some of whom will have big roles to play themselves in the months and years ahead._**


	25. Ego te Absolvo

**_A/N:_ _First and foremost thank you so much PrincessDuckie1 for the lovely review! It had me tearing up a little and I pride myself on my incomparable ability to dissociate from all human emotion..._**

 ** _In answer to your question I have been writing most of my life, but never anything seriously and beyond the occasional poetry competition (yes I_** ** _was that kid in school- wildly cool: either want to be with me or be me) and whatever the f***k this is, I have never shared._**

 ** _Speaking of this travesty, brace yourselves._**

 _-0000000000000-_

* * *

 _Ego te Absolvo _

**_Chapeltoute Hall, Alicante, April 1537_**

At long last, spring had taken hold. The wind oft came now more as a breeze than a gale and it did so with far less bitterness. Taking that and the finally lengthened days as good a sign as any, the first flowers were out in force. They had began to venture upwards weeks ago, some daffodil buds beginning to poke above the earth. The snowdrops, faithfully first each year, had long since been standing up to attention in the flowerbeds, resolutely allowing their white capped heads to be rattled in the continuing wind and rain. Now the banks of grass were crowned by swathed coronets of white and gold daffodils in earnest.

It was still cold, Jace admitted, though he had borne winters that had dragged on longer than this one had. One year in Adamant the snows had lain on the ground until well into the middle of March. Milder though the present newborn season was in comparison, he was not prepared to dispense of his furs just yet, as he stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets.

The King had been chomping at the bit to return to his outdoor pursuits, after the latest- and hopefully final- cold snap had relented he was the first through the palace doors. However, for the past fortnight the ground had been too wet for long bouts of riding out. So today His Majesty had reluctantly opted to leave his mount in its stall and turned instead to the carefully kept tennis lawns.

The indoor courts were the usual haunt for such sport, but the King found himself unable to allow the first truly sunny day of the year to pass by with his being stuck indoors, so had ordered the games to relocate. By now the players had stripped down to their shirts and breeches in spite of the cold, sweating profusely in what could have been a life or death game of tennis, given the intensity with which it was played. The older men had yielded the court to the youth; now it was young Jon Cartwright (keen to prove his full recovery from last summer's jousting wounds) and Sebastian Verlac who were battering the ball back and forth.

Although the other watching lords were offering hoots of encouragement and laying bets, Jace had lost interest in the game some time ago. His eyes kept straying upwards, to a certain line of glass panes in the grey stone walls of the King's most recently refurbished city residence- his Duchess's windows. She could have been here if she wished it, several of her ladies were present. Aline and Helen were not far from where he stood, arms interlinked and paying the game before them no heed, wholly wrapped up in whatever the other was saying. Several of the other new maids whose names escaped him but faces brought a twang of recognition were lining the edges of the tennis court too, some trying with an awkward lack of subtly to catch his attention. His wife herself, however, though she had obviously granted permission for her ladies to attend, had refrained from making an appearance.

Jace suspected she were avoiding him. They had gotten past that first dreadful night in the last week or so, just about. He had returned apologetically to her dinner table the following day, and they continued as if it had never happened. Almost.

He feared he had broken her heart, or possibly something more when he had shouted at her and thrown her out. It was for her own good, he told himself miserably every time he caught her watching him warily from the corner of her eye, and each time he watched her weigh her words before she posed them to him. They remained perfectly amiable to the outside eye. But she did not laugh as she used to, nor did she light up whenever he walked into the room. Now she stiffened and checked herself, afraid to spark another outburst.

Once being feared would not have been an unwelcome thought. He might have imagined that it amounted to being respected, God knew that was how Valentine made it seem. But never in the eyes of his own wife. He hated it and hated himself. But each time he longed to reach out to her he remembered who he had become and what he had done. That man, that _monster_ , who had slain hundreds in cold blood needlessly and senselessly… he did not deserve to touch her. He had been to war before, of course, but this was different. This was murder. There was no righteous cause here, in fact his hands were sullied with the blood of the men who had the righteous cause. There had been many nights when thinking of Clary, far away, safe, innocent and happy had been all that kept him going. By telling himself he was doing all he did to keep her safe he had narrowly stayed his hand from turning his sword on himself. He dared not taint her.

So beyond the perfunctory hand in hand entrance to a state dinner, or offer of his arm while they paced the garden or gallery in uncomfortable silence, he had not touched her. Then every night the two of them went to bed alone, something the King could not be ignorant of. Valentine would have no time for his guilt. Jace knew time was running out, and sooner rather than later the King would pull him aside and ask him why the bed that had been so meticulously made for him with no small amount of trouble was too good for him to lie in these nights. He had yet to decide how he intended to reply. He still had his gloved fingers hooked in his belt and his mind drifting when Lucian Graymark sidled up to him.

"One of the more entertaining matches, would Your Grace not agree?"

Jace started at the sudden voice, then blinked and laughed uneasily, "Forgive me. My thoughts were elsewhere."

Luke donned that understanding smile of his, the one that pressed for nothing further while somehow still retaining the impression it grasped the situation entirely. "I can imagine. Is the Duchess well? It is not like her to stay indoors when there is an alternative."

Jace nodded his agreement, "Indeed, she shares His Majesty's love of the outdoors. She is perfectly well, my lord, merely taken with a slight chill and a good read this afternoon."

It was not entirely a lie, though Jace knew the red rims to her eyes were not the product of sneezing. He had tried to soothe her unhappiness somewhat by officially extending his book collection to her, though he had noted in his absence some of his copies had already gone astray. Clary was, as far as he knew, truly enraptured with his Latin copy of Caesar's Civil Wars. He had glanced in earlier to find her planted happily at her writing desk and embarking upon a translation, one set to amuse her for the next few hours if not weeks, to be sure.

He told Luke as much now, to which he nodded approvingly, "I understand that Her Grace is much gratified to have found a husband who will not only allow a continuation of her studies, but will even encourage them. She feared that she may have to curb or surrender her work after she were wed."

Again, Jace found himself surprised. It had never crossed his mind. He delighted in her intelligence and he loved having a partner so well read. Once he would have spent hours comparing what he had read with what she had, then sparring with her on the meaning or use of certain pieces. Once, he recalled now, he had listened to her complain that her Greek lagged far behind her Latin and fully planned to tutor her himself, or better still, find another scholar of renown who would. Again, as it always did when he thought of her, self-loathing speared his thoughts. He shrugged and then stuttered from his dry mouth, "I would not have a stupid wife," He shrugged and nudged toward humour, "If the only other men she cares for the company of are Aristotle and Virgil, I shall think myself a most contented husband indeed."

Luke laughed, mercifully, then sobered. "I shall understand entirely if you berate me for venturing beyond my place, but I speak only as a friend …"

Jace glanced at the older man sideways, "Lord Graymark, I have always prized you as one of the few who did not mince their words to me."

Luke accepted the jibe with a nod and a wry smile, "Of course. I mean only that you do not always strike me as a man most contented. I would not presume to hassle you for the cause, only to ask if there was aught I could do to lessen the trouble?"

The young duke could have chased him away, he supposed, with a sharp chastisement and a stern denial anything was wrong. But he no longer had the energy to stand on his pride, and there was in fact some help Luke could offer.

He began with a sigh, and turned his head more decidedly to Graymark's, thankful now for the rising wind which would drown out his words. "I would be glad of your advice, as it happens."

Luke smiled by way of encouragement.

"I know my wife has availed of your guidance in the past, perhaps I too might? If she holds you in her trust, then so do I."

It was not a wholly heartfelt declaration, but nonetheless, one he deemed necessary. Yes, Clary had come to trust the man, and he had expressed a very real concern for her wellbeing in the past. Jace was not about to put his life in the man's hands, but he believed he could rely on the lord of Aconite's interest in Clary's happiness. That was too rare to do other than treasure anyway. Besides, he needed some lordly advice, and though Alec was useful to an extent, he had not the experience of solely running a sizeable estate- Luke did.

"My relationship with the people of my lands…" Jace began tentatively, "has become- how do I put this delicately…" _Destroyed? Obliterated_? "…Strained by recent events"

"I see," Luke nodded slowly, fixing on Jace that deep gaze that really did see his problems, "You remain their lord. You still have duties in Broceland." _Whether you like that or not_ , he did not need to add aloud. "If you wish to make any kind of reparation, you need to do so now."

"Can reparation be made?" Jace dared speak it, albeit not very loudly. He meant what he had said, Luke was one of the very, very few he could trust to give him the undiluted truth.

"Reparation can always be made," Luke spoke with quiet conviction, "Is that not the essence of Christian belief?"

Jace tilted his head back, feeling the first droplets of rain splash upon his cheeks, "Does not help those who are already beyond salvation."

"But that is what I am saying, that there is no one and nothing beyond salvation. And I am no green boy proclaiming such a statement in naivety," He concluded with an astonishing amount of feeling.

Jace chanced a look at his companion, following Luke's gaze to where the King stood by, clapping and laughing at one of his lord's quips. Admittedly, Luke could not be short on faith, if he continued to cling to Valentine and counsel him. Believing that perhaps one day he would wake up and see in his monarch again at long last the shining Prince he would have followed blindly to hell in his youth.

Those intelligent, unwavering blue eyes returned to his, "If you do not go to Broceland soon, you never will. When a child takes their first tumble off a horse you brush them off and tell them to get back in the saddle immediately, else you know they will never have the nerve to. It is just so now. No, I daresay that there will be no fanfare of welcome, you may even have to slip into your own home like a fugitive. But once you are in position you can start to make amends somehow. Meagre as you may find them to be, they are far more than you will achieve in Alicante." His tone softened once more, "I also expect it will do the Duchess a world of good to breathe some country air again. Aside from all of that, you would be surprised at what wonders being alone will do." Jace felt himself redden. He had not only been referring to his relationship with his tenants, but had not expected Luke to address that so explicitly.

"We shall have to see" he muttered, looking back to the King. And of course, persuade His Majesty that he was of the most use to the crown in Broceland. Honestly, he doubted that Valentine would resist his plans if he thought it would put him back in Clary's bed and provide him a grandson.

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

"Clary?"

Engrossed as she had been in the rolls of parchment before her, the Duchess had yet to spare a glance at whoever had just entered her rooms. She knew it could only be a select few, to have enter unheralded and without being apprehended, probably Isabelle or Maia. She had heard but not registered the soft snap of the closed door and it was not until the voice was right beside her she looked up. Feeling her guard rise, she fixed what she hoped was a bland, indifferent face in place. Swallowing and laying aside her pen, she turned in her chair to face her husband. Fixing the flap of her robe over her nightgown, she was glad to duck her head away temporarily while she attempted to come to terms with the fact that they were alone together for the first time since that awful night when he had first returned to court.

"Are you busy?" He sounded every bit as cautious and uncertain as she felt when she looked at him properly, absorbing the hands he was slowly wringing before him and the broken skin on his lower lip where he had obviously bitten it.

"I was just about to halt for the night," Clary admitted honestly, clasping her hands together in her lap.

He nodded, then let his eyes flicker back to hers, still glowing with apprehension and- desperation? "May I speak with you?"

She could send him away, Clary considered. Give him a taste of his own medicine. "I am tired," she could hear herself saying, waving him away imperiously. She wagered he would take his leave without an argument, given the way he was hunched in on himself now. But to do so would be too like kicking a puppy for her to stomach. So instead, she gestured for him to take the next seat. Her father would be delighted to hear the two of them had been alone together in her room of an evening, if no other good came of it.

Jace seemed at a loss for words, for all her invitation to speak. For a time, Clary waited in silence. Yet this was not a tolerable silence, and so her patience soon ran out, "Jace-"she started, a little exasperated, only for the following words to die on the tip of her tongue since she suddenly noticed his hands were shaking. They were also close enough, the closest they had been in weeks, for her to appreciate the blueish bags under his eyes. It would appear that contrary to whatever thoughts she had tormented herself with into late hours he had not been sleeping soundly without her. That did not eradicate the fear that he had found someone else to share his nights with. Logically, she knew not to be Jace fickle and thus not like to stray from her so soon, not after all they had endured to be together in the first place. That did not silence the irrational part of her brain that thrived on having her torture herself.

It had taken no small amount of effort to wrangle reports of what precisely had occurred during Jace's mission in the counties. They had been disturbing but, she had trusted, greatly exaggerated by the King's enemies. She made herself halt and side line that assumption as her husband finally looked her in the eye. Again, that gloomily leaden expression set her on edge. She did not attempt to urge him to speak again.

In due course, he made to verbalise himself. "I need to apologise."

Heart thundering, Clary bade herself sit still. Regurgitating what she had heard would do neither of them any good. Difficult as it may be, she needed to avoid putting words in his mouth. She had made the conscious decision not to press him to open up. It had felt wrong, not only because she feared it would make him snap at her and then snap shut again. They had come too far for her to allow him to slam down the defences again, much less urge him to do so. She would hold her tongue and take what he saw fit to give.

"I have behaved terribly towards you." His addressed the carpet rather than her face, which Clary tried not to grow too upset about. "And many others besides."

There came another audible click as he swallowed in the silence, then nothing more. Sensing that her still tongue was starting to do more damage than it was preventing, Clary sought to stoke a deeper confession.

"I know that there are parts of yourself you have not shared with me. There are thoughts, dreams and experiences you have shared with none but yourself. For whatever your reasons, a part of you has always been hiding Jace. There may always be things you keep from me. I do not demand for your soul to be laid bare before me, nor shall I ever. You need not admit me where I am not wanted, just know that I will always be here and willing. Whenever you may need me, whatever you might need of me- it is yours, as am I. Always." She reached for the quivering hands before her, stifling her relief when he did not flinch away.

At last he looked at her properly, with mingling distress and astonishment. "Clary… you know not what you are saying. You know not what I have done."

Though his protest rose with perfect earnestness and self-disgust he failed to remove himself from her touch. He did not want to pull back, he never had.

"Then tell me."

He did. Each and every sordid detail, with voice often breaking but contrite tone never wavering or waning, her gentle probing had already sufficed to break the dam and now all his remorse came pouring out.

"Tell me why."

"What?"

"Your actions do not matter. I would know the intent behind them. Why did you do...all of it?"

Jace swiped his tongue over his cracked lips before starting again. "For you." His eyes shot to hers with urgency, "I am not blaming you. There was nothing you could do, and you had no part in any of this."

 _Not strictly true_ Clary considered ruefully, recalling it was to attack her Jonathan had diverted that fateful path to Oldcastle in the first place.

"I knew that if I refused your father would use you to punish me. I was frightened that he would take all of this away." He swallowed again, face holding such distress that Clary wanted to weep on his behalf, even as her anger began to stir. How dare anyone hurt him, especially her own sire! Her husband's attention fell again to their joined palms, where her white, soft, lady's palms cupped his tanned, scarred soldier's fingers. "These hands you hold have blood on them. The hands of a coward who spilled the blood of innocents for wanting nothing more than a better life."

She could dispute the claim of innocence, Clary supposed, considering many of the would-be zealots were little more than ruffians who had taken to the roads thanks to the appeal of a day's looting in Alicante. Months later she could still feel intrusive hands in her hair, her skirts… But all of that paled to a technicality, as her wounds were not the ones open and bleeding.

So she raised his hands to her lips instead, focusing all her compassion and love in the gaze she levelled to his, kissing each of his fingers in turn. He watched her, speechless and eyes glistening with restrained tears as she leaned in, closing the gap between them. Not to kiss him, but whisper the words she prayed would set him free. "Ego te absolvo."

He pulled her into his arms, pressing his dampened cheek into her braid. Clary wrapped her arms around him in turn, holding him to her just as fiercely. She closed her eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of him, the one she had missed so desperately. Much as she might know that wrenching a promise to never leave her again from him would be futile, as Jace would have to go wherever the King sent him, she longed to hear such an assurance.

When they finally drew back, he kissed the tip of her nose and carefully swiped away the tears from under her eyes she had not realised had fallen. She offered a trembling smile, caught a breath and closed the gap between them for a kiss. The one she had waited for, what she had been missing. The kiss that warmed her entire body and cleared her mind of anything but him, that made all in her world well for as long as it lasted.

She knew not how long she kissed him for, it might have been minutes or hours, but when they broke apart she settled herself in his lap, relaxing into him as- after the briefest pause- his arms came around her and his head rested upon her shoulder.

"I spoke with your father."

"Oh?" Clary fought the spike of dread and endeavoured to reply neutrally, "To what end?"

His low voice rumbled into the quiet and Clary revelled in its thrumming through her body, "I asked him for permission for us to retire from the court for a while. To go to Broceland, as we planned to before…" He trailed off and she felt him swallow before adding, "If I am ever to establish myself as their lord I need to meet these people properly, establish myself amongst them as more than a hangman." He stopped again, before concluding, with a nervousness that almost broke her heart, "I thought you may want to join me." Her answer did not come immediately and he panicked, "You do not have to. If you would rather stay here, if you wish for us to spend some time apart-"

"Jace," she turned unsteadily to face him, catching his face between her hands. He smiled ruefully up at her faux sternness. It spurred her on to inform him with perfect honesty and clarity, "The last thing I want is for us to be separated again. As for escaping this court, I could not get far enough away. At this moment, Broceland sounds like Byzantium."

When he smiled at her again it was a purer, happier one. It was not quite the smile she had fallen in love with, but it was the closest she had seen to it in so long that it warmed the hope stirring inside her.

"I am glad you think so. This could be good for us." He dropped his head forward again, laying it in the space between her neck and shoulder as his fingers tightened their grip at her waist, holding the two of them together, in spite of everything, in defiance of it all. She leaned backwards into him properly, reminding herself of how far they had already come. Thus far they had triumphed in overcoming traitor's deaths and the designs of some of the most powerful rulers in Europe, albeit largely to fuel the schemes of another-Valentine. Somehow they managed to be both destined for one another and starcrossed at the same time, to which thought Clary could not but smile, drawing further comfort from the quiet seed of optimism lacing Jace's voice as he repeated, "This could be good."

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

He came back to her bed. Clary was less elated and more relieved, Jace presumed. He had missed lying beside her, falling asleep to the sound of her calm breathing and then waking up to her warmth on the sheets. Still, he drew the line at lying _with_ her.

When he had made to leave her she had not protested, but her head had dropped and not before he glimpsed the glum disappointment on her face. In lieu of protestation she silently battled with trying to resign herself to the small victory getting him to talk about it. Oddly, the respect and love in that mute acceptance was what changed his mind.

That was not to say Jace did not consider changing it back as he stripped to his undershirt (the last thing he wanted to summon any servants to bring him his nightclothes) and slipped under her covers. He sat there uneasily, hands fisted in the sheets, waiting impatiently and uneasily for Clary to reappear. She had excused herself to pray, leaving Jace to wonder what for. Thanksgiving that they had finally begun to make amends? For the strength and patience to attempt to piece her husband back together again? Truthfully he wished he had faith constant enough and conscience clean enough to offer prayer alongside her.

When his wife finally did slip through their bedchamber door she neatly closed it after her and paused, clasping her hands together at the base of the candlestick she carried. The sole flame on the wick shone steadily, there was no tremor to her hands at all, remarkably. Against the white of her nightgown her hair seemed especially bright, but her face was every bit as pale as the flimsy fabric as she drifted toward the bed, hesitating only for the smallest moment.

Not a word was exchanged as she slipped into place beside him and flipped over on her side to face him. Stubbornly keeping his own eyes stuck on the tester far above them, Jace lay on the flat of his back, hands folded above his stomach. He resisted the temptation to drum them together as he waited anxiously, silently begging Clary to blow out the final candle and go to sleep. He forced his eyes to shut and endeavoured to concentrate on keeping a steady, rhythmic flow of air to his lungs.

He knew not whether to focus on her presence or pretend she was not there at all. On one hand, he hoped her being here would at last banish his ill dreams, on the other he feared she might make them worse.

"Jace." She whispered it, though they were entirely alone.

He could not help recalling the dozens of times she had hissed his name to distract him during lessons. He could still see her, all plump cheeks and wild red curls unravelling their way out from under her cap. Disgruntled that she couldn't join the boys' lessons and less than impressed with being confined to her horn book- yet again. She had adamantly wanted to learn arithmetic like the others, leaving her sullen and trying to catch his eye while her governess was gone and his tutor distracted, eager to persuade him to invent some game to entertain her.

Now he had no choice but to look at her. Not even he could convincingly play at having fallen asleep that quickly. She lay perfectly still with hands aligned, the tips of them disappearing beneath her pillow. A curl had escaped from the top of her braid and rested against her cheek. He longed to tuck it behind her ear, but he dared not touch her. _She doesn't deserve this. The man I have become should not touch her. What I am to blame for cannot touch her._

He tried frantically to quiet his inner protests. Clary knew the sordid details in full now and she loved him still.

 _What choice does she have?_ That poisonous little voice sniped again. She was irrevocably bound to him, for better or for worse. Meaning that she needed to make the marriage that had come at such a cost work.

Reluctantly he slid his eyes to hers. The little, loving smile she offered him sent his traitorous heart skipping like a milk maid. There came the soft rustling of the costly cotton covers and she took his hands in one of hers and pulled them over until they lay between them. They remained shockingly mismatched, her small fingers looked laughable hooked around his much larger, scarred ones.

Jace was still staring at them when she freed her other hand from the fringe of the pillow. She curled it around the open collar of his shirt, feeding the material through her forefinger and thumb as she followed it slowly down to the vee. She paused there, just a moment, before slipping her hand inside, brushing his skin. Her fingers were cold, but that was not the only reason he shuddered. It was astonishing, the things that even a fairly innocent touch did to him. The things it brought into his mind.

"Jace" she whispered again, with more obvious intent. She had shimmied closer to him too, across the ridiculous mammoth sized bed until they were face to face. Closing his eyes once more and swallowing Jace made himself count backwards from ten in Italian. Trying to think of anything but her warm, sweet scented breath on his cheeks, or of how close her lips were, how her left hand was lifting his. He heard her pushing down the covers and the next he knew she had laid his palm at her waist. Where he could feel the beginning of her curving hip, the heat of her flesh… Instinctively his fingers tightened, gathering the silk, pulling it upwards as his lips skimmed hers...

 _Go back to rutting with your Morgenstern whore!_ Not a voice he knew, or had bothered to identify. Not one he had punished for the outburst as he had ridden by, but not one he could forget.

Jace wrenched his hand away as if her skin were an oven plate.

He jerked several inches backwards, knotting the sheets around his legs and twisting the warm with the colder, untouched folds. Clary's fair lashes fluttered as she opened her eyes peered up dazedly at him, roused from a particularly pleasant daydream. He could only stare back, horrified and desperate. Eventually Clary glanced away and her hand strayed nervously to her hair, drawing the braid back over her shoulder and rubbing at the end of it, "I... I am sorry."

Jace stuttered out something about how she need not apologise, but she refused to heed it, "No, I- it is too much. I presume too far." Then she did look at him, the keen and understanding expression catching him by complete surprise, "But.." His eyes were drawn to her throat as she swallowed, "Just know that we may, should you wish it." Her cheeks caught fire, as she wriggled further under the blanket she hastily replaced, and pulled up to near her chin, averting her eyes from his all the while, "I want to."

Jace uttered a breathy exclamation of something thoroughly blasphemous. "Clary…" She was reducing his restraint and reservations to splinters much faster than a lumberjack could a log. He pressed his eyes shut and contemplated, for all of a heartbeat, keeping them that way.

Her head had fallen to the side again and he knew without moving that she was still looking at him in that blessed way of hers. With patient hope. Trusting him even we did not trust himself.

"What kind of man am I?" He laughed with bewildered bitterness, "For you to want. For anyone to want."

She shuffled closer one more, gripping his hand and placing it over her heart, so as he might feel it pound under his touch. "The man I fell in love with, I see him still. I will always want you." Her tone turned a touch apologetic, "I do not have your way with words. I know not what to say…"

He shook his head slowly, opening his eyes at last, "You have already said enough," he told her honestly. "If you truly mean that?" He ought to have hated himself for the blatant insecurity, but he was not the person he had been months ago and he was doubting his ability to hide anything. He could not do it anymore, nay- he would not. Not from her.

Clary nodded solemnly, enclosing both his hands in hers with finality, "I love you with everything I have Jace Herondale- and ever will. You have given me no cause to surrender you. None." She spoke quietly but forcefully, with not a trace of hesitation or regret. She made to say something else, but his lips were already on hers.

She dissolved slowly and uncertainly into the kiss at first, then her hands were closing decisively on his upper arm and shoulder as his fingertips dug into the soft skin at her hips. This should have been gentle, reconciling. Perhaps it was- but not for long. It soon melted into something more intense than that.

He ought to be careful with her- gentle in the way he touched her and conscientious of what he was doing, but all such concerns were fast fleeing Jace's head. He ceased simply hovering over her and pressed his body into hers, crushing them together and freeing a hand to yank her hair from its ties, so he could sink his fingers into it at last, like he had wanted to for weeks. She gasped into his mouth so he released her lips- but slowly, dragging the bottom one between his teeth on the retreat. It was so liberating to finally abandon the torment of his mind and let his body take over.

All that mattered now was what he wanted, what he really wanted. He did not want to dwell on anything else, so he would not. Clary must have felt the same, for she kept scrabbling at his back until removed what remained of his clothing and then promptly tore her gown over her head. Once there were no more barriers, he gripped at her breasts and again at her hips, properly now as he roughly hitched her legs over his waist. Her wild breaths drove him wilder, pulling her body tight against his again and flattening her breasts against her firmer chest. He pushed inside her and held her tight enough to leave bruises, without doubt while she left her mark too, sinking her nails into the flesh at his arms and back and her teeth into his neck.

Before their couplings had been slow, sweet, confirming. This was a claiming.

There was no preamble or restraint nor were there soft words or kisses to accompany this. Jace slammed his eyes shut, caught up in their movements and in how her panting was rapidly being replaced by enraptured cries. Soon she was losing control entirely, her body shuddering and clenching its way through climax until he joined her release soon after.

Afterward, gazing back up at that angel tester, Jace was more than a little dazed. He could scarce believe he had just done what he had and in the way he had. Even more remarkably, Clary had not protested. On the contrary, she was still curled around him, pressed snugly into his side with an arm still looped around him and fingers closed tightly over his bicep. As if she feared he might disappear again in an instant. He almost laughed at the notion, surely he had just proven beyond a trace of doubt how entirely a creature of flesh and blood he was.

He was tired, he realised, but it was a different kind of weariness to the one that had plagued him for days. Now it was his body and not his soul which felt so thoroughly worn out. He meant to speak to her, say anything- but he was not sure there was anything left for him to say. So he closed his eyes, meaning to savour the moment, only to find he had no energy left to fight the sleep that moved in to claim him next.

 _-0000000000000-_

* * *

Clary opened her eyes to darkness. Slowly, she grappled in her sleep addled state to come to terms with what had woken her. She kept blinking into the black chamber, trying to recall the frantic movements that had roused her.

Her next observation was that she was alone in the bed. Her hand floundered about in the dark, tips skimming a still warm pillow. Jace had slept restlessly, she recalled, for she had lain awake watching him for hours. Her mind had been too active for her to fall asleep immediately, instead she had held him, tracking the rapid movements of his eyes under his lids and listening to his deep, balanced breaths. He had not woken, but he had twitched and jerked in his dreams. Instead of loosening her hold, that had compelled her to hold on tighter. She wanted to stop this terrible feeling of his slipping away from her once and decisively for all.

In all his fidgeting Jace must have settled long enough for her to fall asleep. Clary had no recollection of having done so until her tired eyes were protesting at the prospect of reopening and it did not feel as though she had been over for long at all. She started to call his name, but a choking sound reached her before she could make a noise. Bewildered she shrugged off the matted blankets and crawled to the edge of the bed.

Several mild mishaps later a flame idly fluttered to life and in the meagre light she followed the noises to the corner of the room where Jace was bent over the pot and dry retching. Alarm singing through her Clary snatched her robe from the end of the bed and, tugging it around herself, she hurried over until she fell to her knees beside him and set the candle on the floorboards behind her. "Jace-" she reached for him and he shivered miserably as she came in contact with his damp, cold skin. "I am sorry" he mumbled, turning his cheek away, "It will pass-" He swallowed with difficulty, "It will pass in a moment."

It broke her heart all over again, the sight of him so reduced. He remained, in her eyes, the strongest and bravest person she knew so to find him feeling so lost and broken…

When they had first met he had reminded her of a lion, she remembered. All unshakeable pride, not to mention the undampened fire and that mane of gold hair. She tenderly prised the fringe of it from his sweating forehead now and laid her other arm over his shoulders. He closed his eyes wearily and kept mumbling apologetically, "I did not want you to see me like this. Every night." She kept stroking his brow, breaking away from him only long enough to seize at one of the additional blankets tossed over their bed and tuck it around his trembling body. "There is nothing to be ashamed of, my love." He leaned into her, dropping his head in exhausted defeat against her shoulder. She held him in the quiet for a time, then attempted to coax him to move as best she could, "Come back to bed."

"You should go back to sleep," He agreed, "I will find no more rest tonight."

"Well we cannot sit on the floor all night," she pointed out with calm practicality, laying emphasis on the _we_.

He argued anyway, naturally, "You need not-"

"I think I do. I remember swearing to be a loyal, loving partner for the rest of our days. Bonny and buxom at bed and board, I believe was sworn."

"There was also a promise of obedience," Jace muttered, "Not that I expect it has, or will be, observed." He did follow her back to the bed however, and upon returning lay back so his head was against her heart. Clary kept running her hands through his hair as soothingly as possible and kissed the top of his forehead, "If I ever do as am told then you will know I have been replaced with a changeling."

He made the vaguest hum of agreement, but his eyes did not close as she had hoped they might. A traitorous part of her did long to slip away to sleep, but he had fought his demons alone all his life and Jace needed to realise that he need not do so any longer. In good times and in bad, she had sworn to love him, and unlike most women in her position, when she had done so Clary Herondale had meant it.

So she saw out the remaining hours of darkness with him, talking about nothing in particular. She filled the silence with every boring, petty detail of what had happened at court while he had been gone.

It was so unfair. Neither of them were saints, but they did not deserve this. They had been married for so short a time, and this was supposed to be their happy ever after. Like all the romances all their troubles were supposed to be tied up and swept away by their marriage.

This was only a setback, Clary strove to reassure her unquiet mind. In time, with her help, he would heal. A few months in Broceland, away from the city and her father and all would be well. Jace had saved her, whether he knew it or not, from a life of unhappiness and a faraway, loveless marriage. Now it was her turn to save him.

She had to.

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

There was a reason, Alec Lightwood reminded himself furiously, that he abstained from recklessness. Primarily because, given his ill-luck he should have foreseen that on the one damned occasion he decided to indulge in risqué behaviour- he got caught. Isabelle had concealed liaisons Alec was glad he did not know the number of, he was sure of it, meanwhile Jace had successfully begun and sustained an illicit dalliance with the King of Idris's very own daughter without it exploding into a major scandal. As for Alec, well he must have been absent from lessons the day they had learned the skills to do so.

Before things had gone to hell he had been having a particularly pleasant morning. Ordinarily he was relatively careful, certainly before now he had only ever spent the night with Magnus at his house. At least that way there was no master of the household to offend, and no chance of a wayward servant stumbling upon something they ought not to witness when they knew their employer had given strict orders for one end of the house to be undisturbed.

But since he had returned to the city, nothing felt uncomplicated anymore. Being with Magnus had once been his escape, now it was just another of the many sins Alec could not confess and knew not how to live with. Certainly, with all that was whirling around in his overactive mind, Alec was not finding sleep an easy companion. Last night Magnus had been detained at court until the small hours of the morning, by which time he had stumbled back to Alec's rooms looking as bone weary as Alec had felt. "And that audience was to what affect, exactly? Another party on the horizon?"

"Would that it were. No, I am afraid tonight His Majesty was grilling me for a progress report."

"Progress on what?" Alec had waited, the way he always waited when he invited Magnus to offer anything personal, or indeed anything work related.

"Believe me, ignorance is bliss."

Alec had scowled, "Easy to say for the one with the knowledge."

"Alexander," Magnus's voice had been jadedly chiding and he had turned to properly face Alec at last, reaching for him, "I keep you in the dark for your own good. You do not want to know the goings on of my life."

But Alec was tired of it, of others pretending they knew what was in his head, telling him what to think. He hated it, and in that moment, looking up at Magnus and his forced smirk, Alec had almost hated him too.

"And you are well enough disposed to know what my mind is, all of a sudden? God's blood Magnus I thought you the only one who knew better than to tell me what it is I should want."

Incredibly, Magnus had flinched, making to withdraw his palms from Alec's face as though his flesh had just sported plague tokens. Alec had caught at his wrists. "Stop. Just stop." Heart pounding, head wheeling Alec tried to make him understand, "Cease treating me like a child, as if I were something that has to be protected. I am not. You think you have done bad things, been in bad places?" He had to exhale a scoffing laugh, "Well now, as have I. I am not innocent Magnus, you hear me? I am not innocent."

They had never fought before, not beyond their usual well-intentioned bickering, and Alec sensed even before the shock on Magnus's face gave way to a new intensity that he had tipped the balance here. What they were to one another, that was changing. And not in the way Alec was used to perceiving such things- the cooling of passions, then the falling apart.

"I know you are not." Magnus's eyes seemed luminous in the throbbing candlelight, "But, Alec, you still do not know what it is you mean to me."

"Enlighten me."

"I do not want to drag you into it. My mess, my darkness. There is plenty of it and you" He locked their fingers together- "You stand apart from that."

Alec swallowed, flicked his eyes up and down the man staring and fidgeting before him, visibly battling to choose his next words.

"I am not a toy. You cannot just use me as your escape, then drop me and go back to the real world whenever you feel you have to."

"No" Magnus agreed slowly. "You are much, much more than that Alexander."

The new intensity was frightening as it was wonderful. "Prove it."

Another shared look in silence and then, abandoning words altogether, as they evidently failed to do the situation any justice, Magnus had opted to crush their lips together.

The memory of Magnus, of his mouth on his, and indeed all over, brought Alec slowly back to consciousness. Still half in the world of dreams, Alec tightened his arms around Magnus and pressed his face further into the mess of dark hair on the pillow beside him as he relished the mild sunlight seeping through the window and warming his back. Like all his moments of satisfaction, it was brief. However, content as he had been in his sleepy reverie, the fall back into the real world proved more shocking and painful than usual.

The room had been filled with soft, slow breaths, now it was split with a gasp.

Before Alec had properly absorbed that, he was snapped to wakefulness by another choked "Oh- Sweet mother of God!"

He whipped himself upright, joining the room's new occupant in being appalled. "God- Isabelle!" Another horrified pause, then all Alec could proclaim was, "Shit!"

His little sister made the perfect stereotype of horror, hand stuck to her mouth, eyes wide as a fish's and complexion ashen. Between all the shouts and Alec's scramble for the bedsheets Magnus had been thoroughly roused. He shoved a long lock of hair off his face, "I thought you told me she knew?!"

In faith, Alec knew his sister was not someone who was easily shocked but then again, finding him in such a compromising position proved a fresh and unprecedented terror. For both of them.

Isabelle recovered enough to unstick herself from her spot on the floor and was starting to stumble backwards toward the door, unpeeling her fingers from her lips to mumble out, "Yes, that it was men- but I had no idea there was _a_ man…"

Magnus relaxed, lounging back against the mattress. "Well then. Good morning to you." He unleashed his best crooked smile, "I do believe we have already met. Introductions seem a touch unnecessary in this circumstance."

Alec thought he may just drop dead, wrenching his attention from his lover to his sister who, to make matters even more astonishing, broke out into a helpless fit of laughter. Magnus remained reclining, propped up on one unconcerned shoulder while Alec remained sitting in the middle of the bed with his back poker straight. Eventually Isabelle strangled her hysterical mirth to silence and began to look a touch nauseated. "I think… I'm afraid… excuse me!"

Isabelle being speechless was a phenomena up there with the rarest of eclipses, so Alec was sure soon there would be those who would dedicate their lived waiting for such an occasion and avidly studying it. A new field of philosophy, most like. But he was not at all disposed to bask in the glory of this particular moment, as Isabelle spun on her heel and ran out the doors as though pursued by Lucifer himself.

 _-0000000000000-_

* * *

Jace must have thought a family dinner such a good idea, right until he found himself trapped at the table. The plan had been to show Clary that while her own kin may be Idris' answer to the Borgias she now, through wedlock, had a whole other family unit to rely on for love and support. It was a sweet sentiment, and ought to have warmed the cockles of his beloved Duchess's heart. But Isabelle's dear brother had, in his desperate optimism, neglected to consider that the other family in question was the Lightwoods.

Even without Robert darkening one end of the table- still off in Paris doing God knew what (or as may be more accurate: whom) the room was frigid. Alec and Isabelle could not happily meet one another's eyes after that morning's fiasco, while her discomfort was only intensified by the fact that it was none other than Simon strumming and singing softly from the corner while they ate. He was not about to look her in the face either, for he was apparently enraptured with his strings and fingers, though she was aware that by now he knew this set backwards, forwards and inside out. Meanwhile Mayrse was a tad over flushed by the wine she had consumed and proving a little too eager in grilling Clary about her brother: his personality, his habits and indeed if he had any intentions to marry.

"I doubt that the royal treasury could sustain another wedding so soon." Clary stated, lips twitching barely perceptibly over the rim of her glass. She concluded curtly, "And Jonathan is hardly the marrying type."

Mayrse laughed shrilly, not even prepared to entertain the notion of being perturbed, "What man is? I would have thought the same of Jace a year ago." She nodded playfully at her foster son, who offered a polite half smile. Even he, whose dark sense of humour was normally thoroughly stoked by awkward situations like this one, was cringing.

"I am a reformed character," he insisted drily, nudging at a cut of meat with the tip of his knife. Isabelle sensed he would rather sever a limb with that blade than have his past exploits and dalliances discussed. Clary knew that he had a reputation, how could she not? Irrespectively, Isabelle perfectly understood how neither the Duke nor Duchess wanted it discussed at length or in detail. The last thing Clary wanted was specifics.

"I am sure would the Crown Prince could mend his ways, were he to find the right woman," Mayrse persisted.

Izzy had to stop herself looking to Alec and mouthing _dog with a bone_ to him. She would have to reassure her brother she was not about to report him to the Church courts in due course, but at the present moment she was not sure she could hold a civil conversation with Alec. She needed at least another day to recover from the shock of what she had witnessed. Accordingly, she focused on her meal and willed her mother to take Clary at her word and leave the whole matter be.

Alec cleared his throat, "Or rather, were the right woman to be found for him. The king would choose the bride. Indeed, seeing as he did not get a formal alliance with his daughter he will certainly look abroad for his son." He shot his mother a pointed look, face sternly set into the man-of-the-family mask, bidding her to hold her tongue. The Countess shrugged and popped a slice of carrot into her mouth, "I was only _saying…"_

"You say too much," Alec chided, then he broke his mother's stare, suddenly remembering the rest of the occupants at the table and their guest of honour. Isabelle glanced as slyly as she could to the seat beside her, where Clary was chewing carefully and looking at the Lightwoods with surprised interest. She was no dullard, Isabelle noted with fright. In fact, she knew all about Jonathan's pursuit of her friend and of Izzy's parents' determination to have her wed: the young Duchess had all the figures and it would not be long until she made the calculation. Isabelle found now that she would be glad of Clary's knowing. She had only refrained from telling her because her friend had been troubled enough by Jace's issues, and Isabelle had been reluctant to pile on her another person's burden with which Clary could do little to help either. With Jace at least, Clary had made some headway, but there was little she could do to assist Isabelle.

Alec laughed with detectable strain, "Why are we talking state politics at a family dinner anyway?" He enquired a touch too loudly and with a hurried shrug.

"Indeed," Jace agreed readily from the head of the table. He strove to change the direction of the conversation and ease the tension weighing in the room, but in doing so unwittingly broke the storm, "Clary and I are bound for Broceland at the end of the month." His eyes flicked to his right, to where Clary nodded keenly, sending beams of candlelight sparking off the little gold crucifix at her throat.

It was not the first either of the younger Lightwoods had heard of it, but their mother was taken aback, "Is that so? Is it wise to leave court with your footing here so unsteady?"

Jace's expression darkened, eyes skipping back to his wife, "It is secure" he insisted, loath to alarm her. That momentary betrayal of tender concern made Isabelle's chest ache. "Besides" Jace pressed on in a lighter tone, "My duchess misses the country air."

"Who would not?" Isabelle asserted brightly, "The city is so _dirty_." From the corner of her eyes, she glimpsed Simon involuntarily wincing at the sound of her voice. She realised with a start it was the first thing she had said. Her intention had been to sulk through the conversation- she did not need to make a special effort Clary to feel welcome, she already knew Izzy loved her like a sister- but she had just latched onto an idea.

"You bore Paris easily enough, it is much bigger and far smellier," Jace commented with perplexed amusement. Isabelle made to jab him with her toe under the table, but judging from the way he jolted in his seat unexpectedly, Clary had beaten her to it. Isabelle had never been prouder of her student. "Of course" the Duke continued hastily, but obviously with less than whole comprehension as to why he were amending his statement, "Given all that has happened in Alicante since this summer you'll be forgiven for longing for the peace of Chatton's gardens."

Eventually, Mayrse paused in the act of pouring herself another helping of wine and came to attention. "You can long for a little longer. Your place is here, in Alicante."

Isabelle refused to surrender her escape route so easily, "My place is with Her Grace" she stated, eyes still on her meal and speaking as though she were merely addressing the non-negotiable obvious

"The Duchess is going for some freedom from the city, Isabelle, and from courtiers like yourself. She will want only a small retinue to accompany her. You belong- as you always have- with the court. You can join the queen as her lady."

"Isabelle is my lady," Clary began, civilly and softly, but forcefully nonetheless, "She goes where I go."

She looked over her shoulder, eyes carrying a reaffirmation of the promise she had made weeks ago, that she would not abandon Isabelle. She would never leave her behind, certainly never to her mother's mercy. Under the table, Izzy let her hand slip into Clary's. Her unspoken gratitude. The Duchess squeezed her fingers.

The lines by Maryse's eyes had tightened and she was smoothing the front of her maroon bodice with her hands, a habit her children were used to seeing as she made to compose herself. "Isabelle will have no use in Broceland." She scanned one of her children and then the other, but neither rose to the bait, united in their silent resistance. Mayrse laughed a little cruelly, "She will be bored within a week and have you tormented."

Ordinarily Isabelle would have snipped out a smart reply, perhaps something to the effect of how if her place were in Alicante, then by all means would Isabelle take it- provided the Countess led by example and returned to where she belonged: Adamant. However she was not prepared to interrupt the real clash of wills here; the Duchess and Countess, staring one another down ruthlessly and biting out their words with enough friction that it was rapidly wearing down the veil of politeness.

Since clearly neither party was about to surrender, they stayed locked in their stalemate. Then, in a horrific moment of unison, both hotly gleaming pairs of eyes shot to the only one who had the authority to overrule either of them.

Isabelle's heart went out to Jace, it truly did, caught between the two of them, fire and ice. Mother and wife. It could have been heartily funny, the exasperated beseeching with which both women turned to him with, _Correct her, will you?_ If only Isabelle had not been the rag doll caught in the middle of this tug of war. She remembered fighting with Alec as a child over their toys, and physically tearing a cloth doll between them on the worst occasion. She could all but feel the ache in her limbs now, being yanked back and forth by these women who each had a firmly staked claim on her.

In any other instance she would have heatedly argued her own agency and insisted on making the decision for herself, by herself. But some buried survival instinct held her back, the unshakeable feeling she would be incinerated in the crossfire between the other women.

This had become about something bigger than her, as was evident in the women's mutual appal upon Jace's hesitancy. The Duke looked a touch sick, and more than a little petrified. Isabelle could see the diplomat in him frantically trying to scout out a middle path here, only to see with dismay there could be none. Isabelle either stayed or went. She could not go halfway to Broceland.

In the end, ten years of obedience won over ten months of devotion. "I think- I suspect… Izzy why would you not prefer Alicante?"

She could not blame her foster brother for being an utter coxcomb, Isabelle supposed, he was after all a man. That rationale did not win over her desire to embed her meat knife in his eye anyway. She could not very well start a scene at the dinner table, unfortunately. Had they been alone she would have thrown crockery about her and not spared a moment's contemplation of the action, but that would put Clary in an awkward position and she was still hyperaware of Simon's presence. She needed to prove to him she was not devoid of self-control or propriety. So she settled for staring Jace down and screaming Judas Iscariot at him with her eyes rather than her mouth, and convey a host of other words besides that which were most definitely not in the Bible.

Clary too looked ready to whack her husband about the ears with her spoon too. "That is not-"

"She would hate the countryside," the Duke started to babble his defence, looking again between the two young women plotting his demise, "You hate the countryside!"

"Jesus wept in Jerusalem," Alec muttered under his breath, dropping his head into his hands, then mumbling darkly past his fingers something about how no crusade would take him far enough from this family. Mayrse meanwhile was wearing the smug expression Isabelle hated most in the world and pouring herself out another generous victory drink.

Isabelle threw her shoulders against the spine of her seat in exasperation. To think she had whirled into this country not quite a year ago sure that she would have herself back in Paris long before the winter snows fell. Now the snows had been and gone and she could not get herself to Broceland let alone France.

"Alec is staying here too!" Jace piped on, and Clary glowered silently, hiding her scowl back behind the rim of her glass. Much as she must have wanted to, she could not cause a scene and start an argument with her husband here either. Hot headed as she may be, even the Duchess drew the line at bringing what was sure to be one hell of a domestic dispute to the dinner table and before the woman who was effectively her mother by marriage. Even if Mayrse had started the quarrel.

But that was as much as Mayrse was about to put in motion, Isabelle told herself darkly. Things happened for a reason, her old nurse had been fond of saying. _What is meant for you shall not pass you._ If she was to stay in Alicante, then so be it. Her mind had struck up the conjuring of a plan already. Jonathan had been banished back to Edom by now anyway, and who knew what wonders Isabelle could work on the queen in the meantime. She trusted no other with her future, that was the point of her resisting wedlock in the first place. Isabelle Lightwood was no damsel waiting someone else to save her, she reminded herself, feeling resolve take root and strengthen within her for the first time in months.

Matters were in fact falling nicely into her hands at long last after all, Izzy decided, meeting her friend's gaze and tugging Clary's fingers under the table to communicate as much. "Stand down", she hissed to Clary who, with tangible reluctance, loosened her shoulders and allowed the subject to drift onto something less contentious.

Isabelle sat in silence until the plates were cleared, thinking fiercely all the while. These past months had softened her unforgivably and she had allowed herself to become too distracted by Simon's sweet words and open heart. No more of that. If she could not relinquish her heart to another she might dispel of it altogether- it were naught but a hindrance anyway. All at once she wanted to be the old Isabelle Lightwood, and the new: beautiful, wicked and untamed. She could- and she would- kill this Crown Princess idea herself. Hell, she may even have fun doing so. For a moment she was glad of her bruised heart.

 _-00000000000000-_

* * *

 ** _A/N: Right, I hope that alleviated the angst a little. God I love putting Isabelle back in the plotting arena._**

 ** _I've decided to give your fair warning this time: I am about to move into exam season so the update may take (even) longer than the usual half a century to occur. Or I may procrastinate to the degree that I churn out another one in the next three weeks. How's that for suspense?_**


	26. Obedience

_**A/N:** ***nervous laughter* hello again. Long time no see. Sadly, the aliens still won't abduct me. The good news is that I passed my exams! The bad news is that I read Lord of Shadows and legitimately thought I was going to need therapy for a while there. :'(**_

 _ **It also took me way longer than it should have to batter this out. There are several versions of these scenes sitting in my documents folder and I remain to this moment unconvinced that the ones which made the cut here should have.**_

 _ **Which has prompted me to consider that I might upload some of the deleted scenes or uncut versions of things in a separate story? Some aren't half bad, they just didn't fit in the story at the time. But there aren't that many of them so I may never bother. We'll see.**_

 _ **But for now. Screw it. Here you go.**_

* * *

 _Obedience_

**_Chapeltoute Hall, Alicante, May 1537_**

To the dulcet tones of Julie Beauvale's wobbling Latin, Isabelle speared the shirt's fringing with the tip of her needle with the vigour of a Spartan warrior wielding a javelin. An incredibly bored, intellectually wasted Spartan warrior but a fearsome being nonetheless. Pitiful as it were to admit, such pretences were all that kept her brain from shrivelling up and dying altogether during these long days at Jocelyn's side.

She was not sure whether to be exasperated or delighted that the queen's face carried the same weariness she felt at the day's proceedings (or lack thereof), calling out yet another insipid correction to her temporary lady, who toiled onward through the psalms. Jocelyn's eyes had glazed over log ago and now kept drifting toward the nearest window pane, her fingers were wound slackly through the bundle of linen that lay otherwise untouched in her lap.

Apparently through his adolescence and into the early days of his reign Valentine's shirts had been mended by his mother. The old queen, Seraphina of Saxony, had been an even more formidable matriarch that her own mother, a shuddering Isabelle had been told, to the point that even when her gnarled, ageing fingers had fumbled and ached throughout the chore, she had been aligning the Valentine's stiches until her last breaths. Upon which time the torch had been passed to the young King's new and unpopular wife.

It had been a symbolic assignment; the proof that the lady the Privy Council had sneeringly dubbed "the milkmaid from Aconite" was just as regal as her predecessor had been, and was to be treated as the queen her mother by marriage had been. Thereafter Jocelyn had stitched the King's shirts dutifully und unwaveringly until the day she disappeared into Broceland Forest. Then, upon return, she had reclaimed the thimble alongside her crown and gotten back to work. Whoever had taken charge of the vestments' wellbeing in her absence God only knew. Isabelle knew for certain that Clary had never been called to serve, although having seen the King's daughter sew she could not feign surprise at the Princess having been overlooked.

Not long ago Izzy might have feared looking too idle for risk of being called upon to read next, given that her Latin was even more abysmal than Julie's. However through some unidentifiable mishap or favour, she found herself the queen's new favourite. Jocelyn, remarkably, liked her- which was more than could be said for any of the other well born idiots who now tailed Her Majesty's every waking moment.

The only potential source of this new friendship Isabelle could fathom was an occasion not long after the Duke and Duchess's departure, when Jocelyn had first attempted to urge her to a bible reading Isabelle had craved pardon. "Why should you not read as the other girls do?" The queen had snapped and Isabelle, bored, irritable and suddenly embarrassed that her ignorance was about to be exposed, had snapped back just as sharply, "Because I am a fervent Reformist. I scorn the Latin tongue."

There had come an audible gasp and the Countess of Adamant had looked at her daughter as though she were set to end either Isabelle or herself in the following moment, before the stunned queen had looked to her young maiden's unrepentant, scowling face and dissolved into hearty laughter. "Have a care Lady Isabelle," she chided when at last she managed to draw breath again, realising that she should not have giggled in the first place, "That is no laughing matter." While her struggle to recollect herself offered mirthful contradiction one bleak, contrary sense of humour had slyly smiled at the other.

"I do admire your spirit, Isabelle," the queen had told her privately since, "Would that we lived in a world where a girl was permitted to have such character. I profess myself quite in awe that you have managed to keep yourself _untamed_ so long, for want of a better term."

Isabelle had shrugged, "I am an intolerable shrew and the bane of my father's existence. And methinks, in recent months, my mother's." In those days any such utterance was hastily followed with a glance to where Mayrse would glower helplessly while pretending to be enveloped in conversation with someone else. That Izzy no longer felt so furtive in her chats with the queen was telling.

That day was the first that her unease drew comment from Isabelle's companion, "Ah. I suspect you remind Mayrse too much of herself."

Jocelyn could have confessed to being the antichrist and Isabelle would have been less shocked in that moment. Reading her disbelief Jocelyn had laughed again, that wry, brittle sound she reserved only for when they were together, "Oh aye. I suspect that is what scares her so. It must make her so melancholy and unforgiving. You remind her of herself, or the girl she was." After a small, pensive pause Jocelyn added, "As my daughter does me. Like I say, this world is unforgiving to wilful women. I expect knowing and voicing her own mind has only ever brought Mayrse Trueblood sorrow."

Isabelle had been tempted more than once, given their new accord, to urge Jocelyn to comment on one of the darker rumours she had heard during her time in Idris, to ask outright if Mayrse and Valentine had been lovers, or if her teenaged mother had only wished they were. If, perhaps, that explained the sudden arrangement of marriage to her father in the first instance. But that would be going too far, even for the admirably devil-may-care Isabelle Lightwood. Besides, she was not certain she wanted to know anyway. Even had she the knowledge, what could she do with it? Lord it over her mother, use it to urge Mayrse to turn away from this idiotic Jonathan Morgenstern plan? Not likely, with the memory of her mother's face the night she had exposed Robert's debauchery still dug in her heart.

Her remote, tenacious mother was not supposed to be broken by anything, least of all her husband's callous actions and her daughter's untoward words. All that had occurred between them since only evidenced that the fatal exchange had not been forgiven or forgotten. Worst of all, an unwitting Isabelle had fixed her own face to the revelation in Maryse's mind. Now her mother- be it subconsciously or no- wanted to punish her for it, and threatening her with Prince Jonathan was but a small part of that retribution.

Poor as things were with her own mother, she did not think that searching for some maternal affection was what had driven her to Jocelyn's bosom. No, having observed the woman's interactions with Clary and heard the Duchess speak of her, Isabelle was sure Her Majesty was no paragon of motherhood. In fact, she recalled now that had been one of the first things that had endeared Clary to her. Isabelle had decided to befriend her upon realising how alone in the world the feisty but frightened young woman had been. Even where both her parents had failed her Isabelle always had Alec to rely upon, what had poor Clary? _Who_ had Clary, for a protector and confidant that would not betray her to the first lord willing to slip a shilling? Jonathan? The thought was almost laughable, in a dark way.

So Isabelle had put herself first in line.

However much she may despise waiting on the queen less than she had expected, that did not mean she was not desperate to have Jace and Clary back. The two women wrote often of course, but never exchanged anything of serious account, knowing that every line was perused before the missal reached its intended a man who walked and talked with such apparent confidence, Valentine had always found his throne an uneasy seat. There could be no other excuse for the mistrust he regarded everyone with, even his daughter.

Still, Isabelle only had to endure the rigid tedium of life as it was for a fortnight more; then the court would be on progress and soon they would be staying with the Duke at Chatton. Thereafter the Duchess would be back at her father's court and Isabelle would have her partner in crime back. And not a moment too soon.

Unfortunately, thinking of Clary always saw Izzy's thoughts stumble next to Simon. She would be lying if she tried to pretend his snubbing of her still did not smart after the passage of time. She also could reluctantly admit that it was more than her pride now bruised black and blue. It was for the best, of course, that much she rationally knew. But the heart was seldom rational.

In a way, though she missed them desperately, she was close to relief that she no longer had to witness first-hand Clary and Jace's joy. Strained though it might be given the current political atmosphere, it was painful for her to behold the way in which they drew solace from one another. Observing how deeply in love they were only perpetually reminded Izzy of how beached she was in her own loneliness.

It was as astonishing as it was painful to her, how icily Simon had distanced himself. For all those days she had spent thinking him the warmest, most open-hearted person she had ever known, he had in fact proved to be so very cold. Mayhap the person he thought her to be deserved such isolation as punishment, but the exile did not enable her to explain that she was not that girl at all. In the weeks she had been left with little better than her own thoughts to amuse her she had come to that realisation at least- that she did not want to be thought so ill of after all. She did care. She cared so much it lay like a tonne weight upon her chest. All her pretence of carelessness and freedom had crumbled down, dissolved from the air and now it lay a deadweight on her shoulders.

She cared about him. She cared for him.

All the while she privately scorned Jace and Clary and even now from what she glimpsed of Magnus and Alec, she could not resist looking at what they had and wanting it. Not necessarily a simple, uncomplicated love, now she was doubtful to her very soul such a thing existed, but a love all the same. Someone who might make all the dreadful things in this world worth enduring. She wanted that unconditional support and that precious thing beyond companionship that both her brothers' loves offered them: honesty.

And yet, the true, bitter irony beneath that secret wish seeped sourly into the confession to herself and ruined it all; the admission that such a thing might always be hopeless for her, who had not even the courage or trust to be honest with herself.

All these years she had pranced about in low cut gowns, tossed her hair and flicked up her skirts to scandalously flaunt exposed ankles, she had been carefully embellishing a mask. Baring as much of her flesh as she might so other, more important things might never peek to sight. Ensuring no one might know the scared little girl beneath, afraid of her mother, overlooked by her father and protector of her brothers. The girl who had realised with dread by the time she turned thirteen and her innocent body began to betray her into a woman's shape that her face would be uncommonly beautiful. That her best asset would be her life's hindrance. Her greatest blessing and her greatest woe.

Once a girl was pretty that was all she would ever be. Men would desire her for it while women would despise her. Even her own parents believed it when they terminated her education soon after her first arrival at the French court, noting how easily she turned heads. They had assumed, and not incorrectly, there was no need for her to be clever or talented; with looks like hers she needed no skill or learning. Isabelle spent the years of her adolescence playing into it all, keeping everyone who was neither Jace nor Alec at arms-length before Clary had come along, in that bull-headed, hands on hips, no-arguments way of hers and refused to be held at bay.

But now with Simon her carefully built up armour had been bashed in around her and Isabelle was trapped inside it. The one boy who had begun to see past it and not turned on his heel had eventually caved to the assumption. No one would love her for her heart, or for the person underneath the elegant clothes and dry wit. Who could blame them? Isabelle barely knew who that girl was herself.

Even if every time she drifted past the lutenist her heart faltered in her chest and her breath snagged, even when Isabelle longed to catch him by the sleeve and bid him listen to her, to explain that she was never a heartless whore, nor ever would be. She remained exactly as she had been a year and a half ago, a petrified, trapped little girl rattling in futile at the bars of a caging sex. Playing the harlot to evade being the wife: ending up just as Mayrse had, a faded beauty, the bitter and abandoned bride's whose years of fidelity were repaid with replacement by a younger, prettier model with the strings to her husband's heart and coin purse.

And yet what good would any of it do? What would she achieve in telling Simon the scandal that had driven her to Idris in the first place was the same as the rest of her reputation, an elaborate lie that had gotten out of hand. Just another falsehood she had absorbed and made her truth.

He may well not believe her at any rate. On the sole circumstance she had inadvertently cornered him leaving Jocelyn's parlour, she had donned a chilly indifference so she could avoid his searching gaze upon her back after they had faltered their way past one another. "I will make no apologies to you" she had bitten out before she could master the sudden swamping of emotion.

"I would never dare presume, my Lady."

"It was destined to end anyway" she had reminded herself aloud as she sped away from him again, just loudly enough that Simon could overhear.

Yet she was driven to admit to herself now that she had not shrugged him off at all, that she still missed him in the achingly vacant hours she was left to her own devices. Who was she supposed to whisper her concerns to now? Who here cared that she dreaded what the future could hold now more than ever with her mother's ceaseless plotting or that she was frightened for Alec, for what may become of him when things with Magnus ended.

All things ended and their relationship could be no different. It would either implode and leave her brother's most delicate, tender heart in pieces or worse, it may explode into the public eye and the consequences of that did not bear thinking about either. She could not even bring her mind to contemplate his fate in that case, one not even she for all her devotion could save him from. As for Jace, she was not convinced he was any safer. Perhaps in that Clary was less like to be the cause of his hurt, she knew the Duchess better than Magnus Bane after all and dared trust her friend a little further, but that did not guarantee Jace's safety or happiness. And for all his stern bravado he was even more vulnerable than Alec. At least should Magnus break his heart Alec was likely to piece it together again eventually and find it in him to love again. Once entrusting his heart Jace had given it for good.

Focusing on the present and on her brothers provided a limited reprieve, but she supposed anything was better to occupy her mind than contemplating herself, either in the immediate distant future.

Letting her eyes flit back over Jocelyn she found her mistress continued to be no more enraptured with Julie's devotions than she was. In fact, where her mind shirked from the months to come, the queen's seemed to dwell only there.

For all her ingratiating herself with Jocelyn Isabelle could not pretend to know what exactly the lady's carefully, constantly churning thoughts might be. She liked to think for Clary's sake that her mother was contemplating how best to smooth relations with her daughter, or make reparation in some form. Izzy could not imagine that even in the years of Clary's childhood Her Majesty had ever been open hearted with her daughter, or indeed a woman often compelled to offer open arms to her child either. That was not to say she had to wonder if Jocelyn loved her child, in fact Isabelle would hazard that the opposite were true. Jocelyn loved her daughter too much, if anything. An entirely repressing, consuming love, though the queen would not see it that way.

Hopefully this season's progress could resolve that somewhat. Once Jocelyn realised that she had not lost Clary entirely as Valentine's puppet she might allow for a rekindling of their closeness. Ideally a model of intimacy that allowed for her claws to loosen their grips slightly. The young Lady Lightwood might even be inclined to assist those efforts, having realised that Jocelyn was every bit as desperate and guilty as the rest of those creeping furtively around the edges of this court. It must be painful, glimpsing that for all her former impact upon the King she had only been viewed as a misplaced possession for some time now. Even queens remained women, and thus just as shackled by their sex as any other female.

If only Isabelle could be optimistic about repairing matters with her own mother. She knew better people than her had tried and failed to thaw out Maryse's rage, and much as domineering mothers were familiar terrain Izzy found she would sooner throw her lot in with Clary's. She may be largely Valentine's consolation prize for a decade of patient loneliness presently, but Isabelle was not prepared to underestimate Jocelyn's value as an ally.

During the many nights she had lain awake into the small hours with her mind whirling faster than a spinner's wheel, Alec's remark that it would be His Majesty who would choose the bride and terms of the Crown Prince's marriage kept leaping to the forefront. Sadly, as one of the queen's many ladies in waiting, Isabelle could not flounce into the audience chamber and urge the king to join her by the lily-pond for a heart to heart.

Instead she had to make do with drawing out the queen's memories. From what covertly honest discussions she had enjoyed with the queen Isabelle had begun to understand King Valentine better. At an agonising pace she came to know the lonely boy, an only child of cold, hard parents who dared demand nothing less than excellence from their sole heir. A boy who had been isolated all his life, a child forced from birth to shoulder the burdensome shadow of the man he must grow to be. The strong leader Idris needed, the Morgenstern dynasty needed. As singular and untouchable as the lone star that dotted his family banners, only this boy could not afford burn up and fall to earth.

Isabelle could not imagine growing up like that. She had spent much of her childhood sealed up in the family keep, yes, but she had always her brothers or servants' children to rough around with, always a small pack of them yipping around the battlements like a litter of overexcited pups. For Valentine there had only been the gaping hole where familial love should have been. Without siblings, he was left alone with parents who would choose on every count to be monarchs before a mother and father, for they fretted too much affection would leave their boy soft and needy. Instead they taught their son to treat his court friends with suspicion, to know that for all they offered it would only be as much as they felt could benefit them in turn.

And yet there had to be some perks to being a king in waiting from one's first breath. Emotionally aloof as his parents were, at any given opportunity the court and world were reminded of the importance of that little boy, of his divinely ordained destiny to rule. He had been overprotected, every Morgenstern supporter painfully aware that they were one mishap from losing their only heir and therefore everything. Ironic, really, that the boy gained so much power at the cost of all his freedom.

That was how Lucian Graymark had found him, restricted to the point of strangulation in ermine trimmed robes. Luke had never been to court, Jocelyn explained one day as they flipped through pattern books in a bay window, with an expression even Isabelle's years of practice could not read. She had babbled on about his father not trusting Luke not to shame them all if he went, convinced that his son was too quiet and reservedly awkward to make the desired impression. He and Jocelyn had come of age on their respective estates in Aconite, and being the only two well born people of an age in the region, became fast friends. Even now the queen could admit they had not been satisfied, "We would spend the bleak winters and yawning summers pacing the hedgerows and waiting for our lives to start."

Then one day it had.

On the royals' summer progress the two boys' paths had crossed. Both sheltered in different ways, one by obscurity and one by the very opposite, both unspeakably lacking company. "I suppose fond as Luke was of me, I was a girl. I was his childhood and he was ready to grow up and venture into the real world. I would never be enough." Jocelyn confessed, hard-eyed and matter-of-factly, but the wistfulness was traceable. How different their worlds might have been had Jocelyn and Luke been enough for one another. Given her mother's offhand comments and the way in which Luke tracked the queen around the room, the sorrowful anger buried behind those bright eyes and the swiftness with which they were averted when Her Majesty's hand slipped into the King's, Isabelle could guess Jocelyn Fairchild would have been more than enough for the young Lord of Aconite. Even then.

Regardless, Lucian became the first man to ask nothing more of Valentine than friendship, to truly care about what went through the head under the crown and certainly one of the first to dispute with him on the rare occasion that a detail their shared, gleaming vision for Idris' future was not identical. Soon Luke had introduced his new friend to his oldest and thus Jocelyn's fate too was sealed. From what she had felt herself being under that frank gaze of Jocelyn's, Isabelle could imagine how exhilarating it must have been for the then Crown Prince, to find a woman who refused to bandy her words, who saw behind that kingly mask to the unloved young man behind and offered him the simplest kindness of unconditional affection. Better still, she supported his ideal of a reborn Idris: a new nobility and a court founded on loyalty and obedience above riches. Then a country cleaned of the undesirables; the heathens, the idle poor, the sinners.

How spectacularly that picture perfect reign and union of kindred spirits had shattered was one aspect of her history Jocelyn did not touch upon. All she did know was that Valentine remained today resolutely oblivious to both being dead in stagnant, rotten waters. Isabelle calmly received all this information with open ears, a rapidly working mind and a closed face. In fact, as the days wore on Isabelle became increasingly convinced that this uneasy compromise between herself and the queen was all that sustained them both. Sharing her history, willing some self-explanation and cautionary message into her reminiscing, Jocelyn imparted all of this to Isabelle while wishing it was her daughter to whom she spoke. Equally, Isabelle listened attentively, mourning privately that she would never have a similar conversation with either of her real parents.

But dwelling on her private unhappiness or past was not safeguarding her future. So Izzy keenly set about aligning what she now knew of the younger Valentine with the present one. The lonesome boy had become a mistrustful man, who looked around and no longer simply saw a circle of opportunistic leeches but now increasingly saw plotters and assassins. Meanwhile, the woman he had once been so grateful for was now his entitlement. The boy planted on a pedestal all his days was now a difficult man to rein in, he knew his own mind and his power and would allow neither to be negotiated with.

Isabelle was dragged from her less than holy contemplations by the arrival of the King in flesh. The one person who could be all that stood between her and union with Beelzebub may be unaware of the power he had over her destiny specifically, but he still moved with the quiet, unquenchable confidence of one who had apparently never lived a day in doubt of the immeasurable influence he did possess. Even knowing he feared a blade in every shadow that was not his own, Isabelle almost subscribed to the façade being reality.

Grateful for Julie's instant silence and scrambling hastily to her feet with the rest of the women to sink in unison to their display of submission, Isabelle tactfully tilted herself forward with the curtsey and puffed her chest out a touch. Though her resented armour may have trapped her, it remained armour nonetheless. Still protective.

Now was a moment of genuine thanksgiving, for her decision today to wear navy that brought out the unblemished whiteness of her skin and drew so nicely on the sloe dark eyes she lifted with deliberate coyness to the waiting monarch. Lastly, a note of self-congratulation to herself for having secured the stool next to Jocelyn. However attractive the queen may remain for a woman her age, she was still halfway through the forties and the body that carried those years only served to make Izzy's face all the fresher. Valentine's eyes could not but turn momentarily to her.

If was impossible to tell if he approved or disapproved, but for now it was enough that he looked. Isabelle Lightwood could do much with that look, either way.

However little Valentine might think of his son personally, no father welcomed whores into their families. Especially not when that family had a reputation to uphold and a legacy to continue.

"Your Majesty," Jocelyn greeted her husband quietly as she was bid to rise.

"Good afternoon, dearest." The King laid a token kiss on the back of her hand and accepted the vacated chair beside her while the rest of the women scattered to a host of other tasks, all circling outwards from the queen as ripples in a lake disturbed by a sinking stone. Isabelle did not go far, opting to sort through the small vase of flowers on the sill just behind the queen, well within His Majesty's line of vision. Dutifully, paying the smallest scrap of attention she could spare, Isabelle set about plucking out dry stalks and crumpling withered flower heads between her fingers, listening avidly all the while.

"I have had an update from Broceland I thought I might share with you." Izzy could imagine the hunger on Jocelyn's face as her husband dangled the tidbit before her. She was desperate for any word at all from the daughter who would not respond to her letters with any more than the most bland, brief comments.

If Valentine had received other news it must be noteworthy indeed. Something significant must have happened. He would have no interest in the small talk, nor would he go out of his way to flaunt having received it before his wife.

"Apparently our son has made quite the impact already."

"Our son?" The queen's eyebrows darted up and then plummeted again as the realisation dawned. "Oh. You mean Jace."

Valentine nodded, the edge of some sour humour marking his face as he beheld his wife's reluctance to acknowledge a familial bond with her new son-in-law.

"Yes," he agreed shortly, "Apparently he is offering shares of his grain to the tenants. What was stockpiled for his own kitchen is now, I hear, going home in the buckets and pockets of every nameless John in Broceland for the winter. Meanwhile the local Church roof has been replaced, amongst other monetary encouragements for parish charity. On another, _uncorrelated_ count I am sure, the jewellery I gifted Clarissa for her wedding has disappeared." Isabelle had to nip at her tongue to keep a giggle or a smirk at bay. Here she was, unable to get her father's attention at all, while Clary's very jewel box was being scrutinised.

Isabelle amused herself by imagining Jace squinting at the scales, tongue poked out in concentration before shrugging and tipping the whole pan of grain into the upturned apron of a farm wife. Then she envisaged Clary with her sleeves hawked up and her freckled face flushed and smeared with flour as she pummelled and kneaded at a flop of dough alongside a wrinkled cook. Surprisingly, the fantasy was not difficult to conjure at all. On either count.

"As a result, I hear a begrudging respect has arisen for the new Duke among the people. Now they have both felt a strike from the back of his hand and grown to appreciate the good fortune that can come from his open palm, I cannot imagine they will be keen to rise against their lord or his ilk again."

Valentine sounded as pleased as if he had achieved all of this himself. He was thoroughly chuffed, Izzy noted from another feigned nonchalant peep over at him. Since he took credit for shaping the man, he also took credit for that man's deeds. Although Izzy guessed the King's approval stemmed from the cunning he assumed drove Jace's actions. It would never have occurred to him that Jace might act because he believed it to be the right thing to do.

"Good news at last," Jocelyn murmured, dipping her head and speaking more to her shoes. Upon His Majesty's entrance she had at long last found the interest and motivation needed to continue her sewing. Valentine helped himself to a goblet of wine Lady Penhallow had scurried over with, lounging back in his chair. Or at least, as close to lounging a man like Valentine could get. There remained a tense tremor to his shoulders and a straightness to his back.

"Indeed." His Majesty tinged his words with some further dry amusement. Listing the exploits of his newest nobles as if they were a duo of children sneaking sweetmeats from the pantry and he, the fond parent, pretending to turn a blind eye. "I wonder if the Brocelanders will ever recover from the shock. To think, they've gone from haughty Stephen cantering by with his nose in the air to his son rolling bales of hay with them! He and Clary wish to play at country nobles." He paused for another smug sip, then cast a mocking, glinting eye at his wife, "In her blood, I suppose. Small wonder she has taken to the shires like a duckling to a pond."

Jocelyn's head shot up as if he had landed a kick to her shin, "I- How- she…" It was shocking to find her speechless. Just as quickly she recovered, pushing her shoulders back and crisply corrected herself, "Not enough to dilute the Morgenstern, presumably."

Valentine flashed his signature slow, serpentine smile, "I should think not," he concluded in the same low, wry voice. The one that suggested he was privately laughing at some jest he had no intention of sharing. It was as irksome to Isabelle as it was intriguing.

Upon taking another long draught of his drink the King's keen eyes strayed upwards, to where Isabelle hovered, looking over her shoulder to the royal couple. She had meant to keep catching quick glances to measure Jocelyn's behaviour and deduce from it whatever she could of the strange tension crackling between husband and wife. As her eyes snagged Valentine's she was faced a dilemma. Ideally, appropriately, she ought to lower her gaze but instead, with a sudden flush of daring, she held the stare.

She spared all of an instant to allow his temper to explode, or for him to land some withering complaint of her. When it was not forthcoming she readjusted her shoulders so she was half facing him. Then, (considering sheep, lambs, hanging) Izzy decided to push the limits a little more, so she fired off a little half shrug and lifted her brows, twirling a drooping rose between her fingers as if to say _What?_ Before oh so slowly and deliberately turning back to her task.

Turning her back to her king.

Her heart pounded lamely and she felt a tad dizzy as she became falsely immersed in the dry petals again. She had just broken the first piece of court etiquette she had been taught. One never, _ever_ turned their back on their king. She knew not even what the punishment for such an offence would be, having never known anyone brazen or ignorant enough to behave so disrespectfully. She only knew her desperation was such that it gave her the gall to try.

Isabelle also had enough experience to trust her feeling that he remained staring; attuning to the male gaze now came as a sixth sense to her. No more was needed for the moment, not with his eyes burning a hole in her shoulder blades and the light from the window illuminating her silhouette of perfectly curving hips and a tiny waist.

And Valentine was not a man to ignore or tolerate such a breach. This was a man who inspired enough fear to command absolute obedience, each man knowing that severe chastisement would follow even a momentary lapse.

If he did have her flayed, what of it? She should have been frightened, but that razing numbness in her chest expanded instead. Let him do his worst. If anything a few lashes might serve to divert her. She was sick of only aching on the inside.

Uninterrupted, Valentine kept up his stream of small talk with the queen, asking her about some noblewoman Isabelle had never heard of returning to court. Still her heart hammered, still her breaths seemed to come and go too lightly to stop the spinning of her head. Until, just as she heard Valentine take his leave with the scrape of a pushed back chair and a soft farewell to Jocelyn a parting purr was directed at her, "Lady Isabelle."

None of the other women received a goodbye by name and she should have been dizzy with joy that the king of Idris even knew her by name, but at last the whirling of the room came to a halt and Isabelle's world steadied and sharpened.

Damned if she did, damned if she didn't, Isabelle Lightwood, swivelled. Never the gushing, startled maiden; there would be no, _Who, me?_ It was with a side smile and cold, proud amusement that she turned, making herself as lovely as ice and twice as deadly. _Of course, me._

Silently, more than a touch theatrically, she lowered herself to another curtsey and dragged her most teasing, sultry smile out of retirement for Valentine Morgenstern.

An alliance with Jocelyn was all well and good but the final decision would still be made by the King. Why should his wife alone sway him? Why let a prince ruin her when Isabelle could do it for herself with a King? Besides, past experiences had proven he need not lay a finger on her for it to be achieved. The mere insinuation should be more than enough.

 _-00000000000000-_

* * *

 ** _Chatton House, Broceland, Mid June 1536_**

It had taken Clary longer than she had imagined it would to grow used to waking to the sound of birdsong rather than church bells. Quelling a yawn, she stretched out her limbs lazily, blinking her eyes open to evaluate the hour of the day. The cocoon of pale reddish light cast by the haphazardly drawn bedcurtains told her it was still early morning. Without doubt, she was more at home in Broceland than she had ever been in Alicante, which was no surprise given that she had grown up in the convent nestled at the heart of its vast forest. But it was still odd not having a euphonic harmony of the city's many chapels to herald in the arrival of every hour.

She stretched out again, relishing the drowsy relief of her loosening muscles, and smiled to herself as her toes bumped against Jace's ankles. It failed to rouse him, thankfully. Rolling over to face him, Clary huddled under the covers and appraised her slumbering husband. It was rare for her to wake before him, normally he was up and about at first light of the early summer mornings. It pained Jace to waste a moment, he seemed to have too much energy and too many things to do to rest for more than a few hours. Especially not when he had so much to occupy himself with. In the weeks they had spent here Jace had been extremely busy, making ties with his neighbours both lowly and noble. For the most part he had left Clary to deal with the latter, hosting an array of dinners and accepting a swathe of invites. By riding out with George Penhallow's younger sister (who was nearing the end of her widow's mourning period and inching her way back to public life) praying with Lord Ravenscar's elderly mother and frequently entertaining Lady Carstairs, hour by hour Clary befriended the women behind the lords of her father's Council. To her surprise, it had been nowhere near as tedious as she had feared. Annemarie Penhallow was considerate and pleasant, Jeanne Ravenscar was wise and witty while Cordelia Carstairs was kindly and approachable in her own way.

She had to fill her hours somehow, since Jace was seldom out of the fields; learning the crop rotations, listening to the harvest preparations and assisting wherever he could. He heard suggestions and he made them, thus he offered his people every hour he could spare. Thankfully the quiet of the Privy Council allowed him to do so; there had been very little royal correspondence from Alicante beyond a confirmation of the date for the King's impending arrival from Pangborn. Mercifully he would not tarry long in their house, Clary had been worried they would not have enough food to sustain the whole court. As she would be the one playing hostess, the buck fell to her to ensure all went smoothly, but with Jace's generosity to their tenants and decision to forget all existing rent arrears she was feeling the pinch. Thank Christ for the Countess of Chene, whose subtly guiding hand and years of practice entertaining His Majesty at Chatton had made her indispensable of late. Beyond that, she had reason to hope the King would be eager to hunt for his own meat in the grounds, which should leave her able to just about scrape by.

But none of that needed to be dwelt on right this moment, not when she had a rare spot of peace to be thankful for her husband sleeping soundly. At long last. That too, she had come to appreciate, was a rarity.

She had surrendered countless hours sleep sitting awake with him during the long hours after he thrashed awake from another nightmare, talking to and holding him until he drifted back to a slumber. After the first few weeks he had ceased being sick after jolting awake, until after a just over month of being established at Chatton House they had slept undisturbed through the night. After some nagging Jace admitted to still being plagued with an array of ill dreams, but he no longer surfaced from them violently enough to disturb her. She had urged him to wake her if he needed to, yet Jace maintained seeing her upon waking was enough to calm him. "That you are here is enough," he had stipulated quietly and seriously. Clary had relented and let the issue be. Now she thought of it, they had not had a major incident since. She had come awake twice after that, but respect for his pride had held her still, pretending to be asleep until his harsh, ripping breaths slid back into a more measured pattern of slumber.

This morning,through a crack in the curtains a band of white dawn sunlight had fallen upon him, illuminating the skin of one bare shoulder and turning the tips of his curling hair a mellow gold. One hand was reaching across the mattress toward her, the other was tucked away under the pillow he lay upon. It was such a position of such innocent vulnerability that Clary was struck for the first time by how young her husband was. The few years that parted them had always seemed an age to her, in that time Jace had seen so much more than her, knew so much more. Now she realised that twenty-two was not very old at all. If he had ghosts aplenty, enough for man twice his age, he should not. She could think of no one who less deserved all that had happened to him.

Through slightly parted lips his breaths still came evenly and deeply and despite her determination not to disturb him, the surge of affection that came upon her left Clary with no choice but to prop herself up and lean over to drop a kiss on his cheek. She also slid her fingers into the gaps between his on the hand splayed between them and made to settle herself back down to doze again. But before she could she was arrested by a sudden stab of nausea in her gut.

In her confused alarm, her hand shot to the silk of her nightgown, bunched against her stomach from the way she hovered, half-rising and half-sitting. Then, as the tell-tale flood of liquid rose from her throat to her mouth she was forced to clap that hand to her mouth. Panicked, she flung the covers from her and tossed the curtain out of her way as she stumbled in the direction of the privy pot, praying that she made it in time.

Once the sickness subsided enough for Clary to recollect her composure and thoughts, she rocked back, wiping at her mouth.

"Now you?"

She turned uneasily and padded back reluctantly to face a concerned, very awake Jace. His hair may be a mess and his mouth stretching in a yawn, but she sensed he would not be easily brushed off. She shrugged, shuffling over toward the small table which mercifully still held a jug of wine from the night before. She swallowed eagerly several times to wash out the lingering stale taste in her mouth before replying. "Broceland's food disagrees with me."

"Hmmm." His thoughtful gaze stayed keen on her face, while he struggled into the sleeves of his robe and came over to her. "We have shared every meal thus far and I feel fine." Jace knotted the garment around his waist, "Then again,I suppose I have choked down some grim fare in my time." He shrugged "If you had ever sailed _la Manche_ on a standard sailor's meal in the middle of December you would develop a strong stomach too."

Clary brightened as her curiosity was snared, "You've been to England?"

He winced, "Not exactly. I have glimpsed the lights of Southampton through the pouring rain." He sighed, "The seas were vile. We got halfway there and then the captain panicked. Between the storms heaving and half those on board also heaving, he felt it best to return to Le Havre quickly. End of adventure." He had turned a little green at the memory and folded his arms. "My least favourite near death experience to date. Come to think of it, I have not been on a boat since." Then he slid his eyes over her again and abandoned the tangent, "But I doubt you are seasick."

"No," she agreed, glancing up at him in fond disbelief as he played doctor.

"You do not look feverish," he smoothed her hair away and laid the back of a hand to her brow, "Nor feel it."

The Duchess swatted him away, laughing lightly. "God help us! Enough with the fussing."

He played at reaching for her again, and briefly they tussled as she attempted to push him away, "Should I call for a physician?" He called over as she poked at his chest, "You seem quite recovered."

Indeed, the sudden nausea had passed. In fact, Clary found herself anxious to break her fast now. He seized at her distraction to catch her wrists and hold her still. "But really Clary, it is not like you to be ill. Was it getting caught in that rainfall yesterday? I could have anticipated a chill but that does not explain the vomiting. Mayhap you should lie down again while I should send for someone."

"Honestly, whatever has come over you? You have become quite the old woman. I am not a child and I certainly do not require my husband mothering me." No sooner had the word left her tongue than her laughter shrank away. Watching her smile drop and her face tense, Jace immediately sobered too. "What is it?" He danced back, releasing one arm and clearing her path to the pot, misinterpreting her sudden silence and anticipating another bout of sickness.

"No, I…" she trailed off, her voice sounding faint and echoic, her thoughts already a mile ahead. Clary made herself swallow past her now dry mouth, "It is likely nothing." She ought not to get ahead of herself. "I feel better now," she insisted,"With a proper meal in me I will be entirely restored."

Jace hesitated only a moment more before extending a hand to her again, "If you are sure-" To which she nodded emphatically, "Then let us scout out something to eat. We have a busy day ahead of us."

"As always. I have begun to wonder if there is another kind. Another expedition with John Carstairs?"

"No," Jace replied cheerfully, "First I want to monitor the granary. Or what remains in it."

Clary feigned a gasp, "Such excitement so early in the day! I fear I cannot cope."

He rolled his eyes at her, "You are back on form already, I see. I am afraid I must deny you that particular thrill. While I am up to the elbows in grain with the servants one of us must play at being gentry. I believe you have another luncheon planned with the Countess. Provided you are feeling up to it."

Clary refused to be distracted, "You do not want me to play farmer's wife?" She had ridden out with him before, to the cottages of all their tenants so she could learn all by face and name.

"No. Unless you have a particular interest in wheat farming." His tone darkened as he finished, "Only one of us need reconcile with the commoners in these parts."

His wife kept her tone light, "But I can be very charming." And truth be told she wanted to do away with the myth the King's daughter was some entitled brat and an insufferable glutton, who did not care a whit which of her subjects lived or died so long as they did it in obedience. She was nothing like her father and brother and she wished for the people of Idris to see that. But besides one or two obligatory rounds to show herself to the locals Jace kept her distant from them. His own safety something he could more gladly risk, whereas he was not entirely at ease with her being among them. God help them, she suspected that if a disgruntled farmer did attack Jace he would nod and agree they had cause to. Clary, on the other hand, was never to be in any risk whatsoever.

Her spouse was a match for her in every way, including her stubbornness, as he reminded her now. "Exactly. Which is why I need you to flutter your _charming_ lashes at Lady Cordelia and her daughter."

The additional unexpected guest propelled her to protest in earnest, "Jace, I think I have Cordelia well and truly beguiled by now. I see her every other day and the last thing I need is a widening throng of Carstairs women. There is no need, we have triumphed on that front, I can assure you!"

"Woman," he corrected gently, "Emma is still a child."

"So I am to play nursemaid?!"

A shallow frown appeared on the Duke's forehead and when he next spoke it was firmly, "Quite frankly, yes. If that should be what it takes to fasten the Earl to me once and for all. If we cannot win the loyalty of a man whose eyes blaze like lamplights at the mere mention of the Herondale name, we are in a sorry state indeed. We need the approval of someone other than your father, Clary. _I_ need it, if I am ever to have some room for manoeuvre in the Council chamber, or to have the ability to compromise with the King on anything." To lengthen the leash Valentine would keep him on, since breaking free of it altogether was not a feasible option so long as he called the sovereign's daughter 'wife'.

Clary rolled her eyes, "I know all of that," she began with exasperation, then the young Duchess trailed off and nipped at the corner of her mouth. She opted to run her tongue under her front teeth rather than moving it to words, realising there was an order woven through those words and quiet authority thrumming in every syllable. He would not demean either of them by barking commands at her like he might a servant girl, but nonetheless Clary was his wife and he expected conformity from her. He was not the sort of husband who would throw his weight around and snipe at her constantly for subservience, but he was her husband just the same. He had made what was expected of her clear and marked the conversation closed, turning away and beginning to get dressed.

It was not unreasonable, what he asked, Clary reminded herself as she followed him.

Anyway, most of the time they stayed in relative equilibrium as a couple, the occasional butting of heads aside. It was rare that he tipped the balance so explicitly. Much as he might jest of her unruliness, Jace was her lord and would only tolerate it so far as he could allow. When it came to matters of import, things he truly wanted or needed, then she would have to fall in line.

Perhaps that only sat a touch uneasily with her because she had grown up in a community of women, where besides the existing hierarchy of a mother superior she still lived within a sisterhood. There she could expect to be heard and heeded among brethren who were aware that she was a royal child and had delicately deferred to her.

Tucking her hair behind her ears and moving in the direction of her wardrobe chamber, Clary scolded herself internally. She ought not to be irrational. It should not trouble her to abide with the wishes of the man who loved and protected her. It was for both their sakes after all. God knew, there were worse men to obey.

 _-0000000000000-_

* * *

Through the gap between Wayfarer's ears, the world looked much simpler: a small patch of green land or dirt road below the sky, limiting all that mattered to a few square feet directly ahead of him. Sadly, these days Jace was all too aware of the bigger picture and of the pressing need to try and plot months, even years ahead.

In his previous life of diplomacy he had never cause to think beyond a matter of weeks. In spite of his skill, his tender age had always made Francois reluctant to give him a permanent posting at any foreign court. Jace, with an unquenchable wanderlust, had never been incited to protest. He had no name, no family and no land to worry about or to tie him to any geographical sphere at the time. Remaining the lone wanderer had been appealing, and heaven knew there still were times as he paced up and down crop lines that the thought of an open road across Christendom seemed more tempting than ever. Nevertheless, now he did have an estate and name to uphold, not to mention a wife to support, all of which necessitated long term planning.

Presently he pulled his faithful mount to a halt by the roadside, stuffed his reins into his left hand and swung himself over Wayfarer's back and to the ground, whereupon he noted with some pleasure that the ground his feet struck was damp and soft, his boots sank into the soil easily once they took his weight. A wet summer may leave many a nobleman or woman disgruntled as it made outdoor sports unattractive, but for the new Duke of Broceland the almost unrelenting rain was a blessing in disguise. Certainly, as far as the eye could see the fields were lushly green and the waving green stalks of umpteen rows of crops were well watered. Reaching over the low fence to run an approving hand one swathe of healthy sprouts, Jace noted with satisfaction that droplets of surplus water dotted them in tiny diamonds. By the time he drew his palm away it was nicely soaked. He flicked his fingers dry, breathing in deeply the clear air, filled with scents of damp flowers and the coppery tang of more rain. Leisurely he paced onwards, reflecting that when he had first travelled from Alicante the rain had left their entourage miserable. The mud slick roads had been dangerous, and the baggage carts had been forced to navigate around the big, murky puddles that spread out from every hollow while also avoiding deep, drowned ditches which would prove fatal to their wheels. Thankfully, the risk of flooding had come to naught and a subsequent dry spell for most of the previous month had evened scales again.

For the moment, the rain showers when they came fell frequently and lightly, meaning the county's precious crops were not choked or drowned. God knew, the thing Jace needed most in this world at the present moment was a good harvest. His change in circumstances dictated that his priorities abruptly and completely change too. A year ago, had he even thought those words let alone uttered them, he would have laughed at himself and then contemplated taking up residence in a madhouse. He smiled to himself now at the very thought, watching the frail, pretty form of a cabbage white butterfly flutter unconcernedly past him, wings like apple blossom petals carrying it along easily on a breeze.

Idris remained renowned for its fertile soil, the planes of Broceland in particular, he remined himself as he strolled further down the roadside with his horse at his shoulder. This southern part of his shire- the parts which bordered the Lakelands- had a mild enough climate and the bounty of good soil lining the banks of the river Durre, all of which made prime conditions for a high yield each year. God willing, this year would be no different.

Besides, this year there would be less mouths to feed.

Conversely, with so many dead for their part in last summer's riots there were also markedly fewer men to work the fields. While Jace could not conjure labourers out of thin air, he had done the best he could. At one point he had even contemplated hiring migrating landless labourers out of his own pocket to work the fields of Chatton, but the sorry fact was that the coin for such an endeavour did not exist. Instead he had to focus his energies elsewhere, mainly on offering what charity he could. Relief could only come from the parishes, so Clary had set about sweetening the local church, paying for renovations and buttering up the clergy, even rekindling some contact with her old girlhood friends in the convent east of here with donations and favours. Anything to encourage a more proactive approach to the destitute in the community.

For his part, Jace had taken a more direct approach. Looking around the flourishing farmland now he recalled how he had once struggled to comprehend how anyone here could starve when the land was so fruitful.

The answer to that question had been discovered in his own kitchen. The stores of food he had found there proved stomach turning rather than appetising. "How much do you expect us to eat?" He had enquired of his cook incredulously, pacing from one packed, cool storehouse to another. One crammed with tray upon tray of soft beige eggs, another lined with more fresh fish than Jace had ever seen in his lifetime. He might have accepted the quantities easier had he not been shown by Clary the simple, sparse allocated meals for the staff listed in their accounts. She, as it happened, was the one who alerted him wide-eyed to the "marketplace" of foods downstairs which she had discovered. Technically, the domestic affairs within his walls were entirely Clary's realm, but having listened to his stewards confirm his suspicions, Jace had to acknowledge his claim on the goods was slim. Much of it came into the house to bulk up rent payments, as the local subsistence farming families had little coin to hand. But no storehouse in the world could keep all of it from rotting over the summer, so what was not consumed by the resident family would be sold onwards for a profit, usually in cities such as Alicante or even overseas. Well no longer.

After having Clary section out the minimum of what might be needed in the immediate future and with some book balancing, Jace had been able to offer just over a quarter of his supplies to his tenants. Granted this year's harvest provided they should have enough to see them through the winter and well into the following year. His ambitions to help improve his people's lives had not been satisfied there. Instead, with the help of the Earl of Chene, he had recently compiled a scheme whereby some new high yield and high profit seeds could be introduced to the land next year, funded largely by the Duke himself. He just prayed that he had understood what had been told to him by those locals whom he had spoken to fully, and that this was not to prove a disastrous investment.

Two such farmers lumbered past him now, men with lined, dirty faces and gnarled hands curled around heavy wicker baskets, too old to have partaken in the riots which had doomed so many of their younger neighbours. Sons even. Each carried a course sack over his shoulders, proof that they had just come from Chatton. With a mumbled "M'lord" they doffed their crude straw hats to him and scuffled on. These two had not quite met his eye, but spoken thankfully all the same. While the gratitude writ so plainly on the faces of some who had hastened to the manor house for their helpings of foods was striking, there were also those who received it all with grim pride or bitter resignation. Accepting what he offered because necessity and hungry children demanded it, lifting baskets and jars with brisk, snappish movements. None of them forgetting that the man whose charity they had to fling themselves on was the reason they were in widow's weeds in the first place. Jace did not know whether to be outraged or relieved how easily many of them accepted their lot, knowing that whatever their lord might do to them he remained their lord. How willing they were to bow their heads and accept that hope for anything better for their children was foolish and any promises of change were empty. Valentine had been right after all, Jace had come to realise. At the first crack of the whip these people would fall back into miserable line. They had no choice if they wanted to survive.

And yet Jace could not pretend there were not those amongst them who still looked at him curiously, sometimes with a glance that almost held pity. As if they had come to realise he was every bit as crippled by his duty and status as they were, that he had to fall into his place just as often as they did. Sometimes he feared the last kernels or glimmering embers of anger he could pick out behind tired, desperate eyes was not wholly directed at _him_ after all. Or mayhap he saw only what he wanted to see. What he could be sure of was that while the tenants may no longer loathe him, they were still far from loving him. That being said, the fact that he now felt safe enough to ride by himself spoke volumes, even if he did always keep a weapon stuck in his belt.

Sighing a little, Jace glanced skywards, noting that the brief moment of warmth from the unsettled late spring sun had vanished, squalls of greyish, smoky cloud obscuring it. Eager to avoid the looming downpour, Jace sidled back up to the stirrups and clambered hastily into the saddle again. From his new vantage point he could see the light brown stone of Chatton not far away, just beyond the overcast patch and so still bathed in sunlight, which left the many windows twinkling an eager blue. Almost beckoning their master home. For home it had become to him, remarkably.

Jace had thought he might miss the intrigue and excitement of court, he had worried that boredom might dull his political acumen and he would soon tire of life beyond urban civilisation. While in part that was true and he did rather itch to return to the opulence of court and above all to Alec and Izzy, Jace had also found himself grateful that the correspondence trickling out to him from the Council had been brief and he had been able to truly disengage from the petty wrangling of the various lords' factions. At least the peace had allowed him to make some progress in his own duchy. Nowhere near as much as he had hoped, but Jace was trying to remain relatively optimistic. This year he would lay the foundations, then next year he would build on them and likewise in the years after that, until his charity was no longer needed. Yes, his personal treasury would feel the strain, but Jace was used to living a modest life and thanks to her upbringing he knew that Clary was too. He would try not bankrupt himself, but one could argue that a starving or dead tenant paid no rent at all. It was of benefit to him too, to prevent them being entirely downtrodden in the future.

Another benefit to the King's daughter having been married within Idris' borders was that there was slim chance of being hauled into any foreign wars on the coat-tails of an alliance. In a time of peace the land and people could recover and Jace would be left at peace to aid that recovery, with or without his presence in Broceland. He had to admit that the latter would be more often the case. He would spend as much time here as Valentine and Idris would allow, but in the meantime he would have to trust an agent to oversee matters here in his stead and keep his plans running as smoothly as possible. Thankfully, with the help of one of Lord Chene's quiet recommendations the current head steward, Matthew Bernard, had proven his ability to step into the role.

A start was something and really all he could have hoped to make in the short months he had spent here. Now he simply had to have trust enough to step back and let some faithful servants carry the momentum. Yet out of all his new duties and roles as a noble, that was the part Jace was finding it most difficult to cope with. He had watched and served enough lords to know how to strike a good imitation, to walk and dress the part, but he was so used to relying on himself and his own wits that it was difficult to loosen the reins on something he felt responsible for. Nor did faith in an underling come easily to him. He was not an easily trusting person and doubted he ever would be. But he could be practical and he would have to. There was no way he could sow seeds into a field at Chatton and be in his seat on the King's council in Alicante at the same time. What he did know was that if he wanted to stay as these people's lord and remain able to help them in what little ways he could, then he would have to pull his weight in the King's service and he would have to personally attend His Majesty to do so.

But for the moment he could be mildly satisfied, he had achieved everything he had set out to when he had ridden for the village just after dawn. Filling his lungs with another gust of clean, earthy country air he followed his nose to a nearby hedgerow in full bloom, admiring the wealth of blooming flora, fancying it betokened the new start he had longed for when he had first ridden fro these lands. The luscious, bold leaves were growing outwards into the dirt road, but Jace did not let it trouble him, edging Wayfarer over and letting the horse take a mouthful as he made instead for the cream and gold clusters peeping out from among the greenery, hanging languidly within easy reach of his fingers. Tentatively, with mild amusement as he recalled the first time he had done so, he plucked at the honeysuckle stems and brought the little bundle to his lips, relishing the brief sensation of sugary sweetness on his tongue. Clary had been the one to show him how, laughing incredulously at his incomprehension. She could not believe he had never sucked honeysuckle before, "But they must have grown in Adamant!"

"I am sure they do but anytime I rode out I was on the lookout for potential quarry, not plants." Then, bemused and half-certain he was about to die as a result of ingesting some kind of poison he had mimicked her, unable to withstand her insistence. Now he gathered a small clump for her, hoping all their flavour would not seep out into his pocket between here and the house. She would laugh at him, as she always did, bringing her home clusters of wildflowers. It was the very least he could give her for keeping him sane and for giving him something to get out of bed for each morning. Without her hope and determination, he was not sure he would have found the motivation or the energy to believe he could begin to make things right.

Clicking his tongue, he snipped his heels at Wayfarer's flanks to urge him to a trot. Valentine and his possy would descend within the week, so for what little time he and Clary had Chatton to themselves as master and mistress of their own little world, they may as well enjoy it.

 _-00000000000000-_

* * *

 _ **Chatton House, June 1537**_

Hours after the humid, lengthy blue summer dusk finally surrendered to night proper all was quiet in the best of the house's bedchambers, the traditional Duke's quarters. Still, the Duchess lay wide awake and absentmindedly watched the reflected firelight pick out the bronze threading in the watchful Angel stamped tester above her, until those strands of fabric simmered with light, like running veins of molten gold. Another overlooked piece of royal propaganda from the house's previous inhabitants. Technically, marriage could not change the blood in her veins and so she was still a royal. There was nothing wrong with Clary continuing to sleep under it.

That thought was accompanied with a twisting discomfort in her gut as she considered that the design may have sheltered a slumbering Herondale master or mistress of Chatton long before any of her family forbearers. She had briefly wondered in her first nights here how she could tactfully have a servant remove and replace it without seeming a whimsical, spoilt little madam with nothing more important to worry about. She had dismissed the suggestion almost immediately, knowing such a request would sound ridiculous regardless of how she voiced it. She had made herself consider it another way, as rather apt. Neither a heron nor a star, so it could belong to both her and her husband equally. A reminder of their common Idrisian heritage, whatever family feuds had emerged in recent generations.

And more than those ancient blood ties bound them now, she thought with a small smile, her limbs still entangled with a dozing Jace's under the covers. Turbulent as her mind was, the only sounds were their lazily pattering heartbeats and the measured breaths lightly teasing the exposed skin at the base of her throat, not quite touched by Jace's lips. The candles which had not been blown out had long since guttered out and the muted light from the dying fire made the room seem all the warmer, the safer. It ought to have lulled her over, but Clary's eyes stayed open, watching how her bare flesh took on a pearly sheen in the gloom but the hair swept over her shoulder still caught the dying, tawny light so the lock she pushed carefully behind her ear shone a dim russet, more brown than red in the semi-dark. She shifted, rolling over a little to gaze out into the faintly glowing embers, watching the single flame that still bobbed and fluttered weakly in the grate, completely lost in her own thoughts.

Jace stirred behind her, sliding his arm down her side and pulling closer. She sighed contentedly at the warmth of his bulk against her while their legs twined tighter. "What keeps you awake?" His voice was roughened by the edges of sleep and a reviving lust at their proximity, "Have I not worn you out enough?"

Even in the weeks following their reunion in Alicante there had scarce been a moment spent alone together that had not ended in their pouncing on one another and eventually tumbling into bed, or (as Clary was only slightly ashamed to admit) any surface at all. She had found herself hoisted onto tabletops and even once pressed against a wall-none of which she could ever take to a confessional. For all that, she had never been inclined to rebuke or discourage Jace even slightly, in part because she knew this new need for an almost constant physicality was one way he sought to recapture an intimacy between them.

Much as he tried, it remained impossible for him to remove her face from the thoughts of what he had done the last time he had been to Broceland. Her father had clearly mastered the art of dangling her in front of Jace like a particularly ripe carrot. He had played on what would befall her were an uprising successful by flinging up her past narrow escapes from the rowdy peasantry and offering the idea of her waiting happily at home for him her all the while as the end prize in measured doses. Only Valentine Morgenstern could manage to marry his only daughter off and retain the ability to use her to barter with his new son in law. Trying to untangle a way to undermine or flip that influence over Jace would take more than a summer.

In the meantime she had to accept Jace's clinging to her and keep being his reassurance that it had not all been for nothing, that he had bought them safety and a future. Surely she could derive some comfort in knowing that her husband could have opted to lose himself in much worse than her body.

Secondly, while she could try and reason at being the compliant wife in her mind, Clary knew she could no longer dismiss her own lust as a fiction. Truthfully, she wanted that physical closeness just as much as Jace on every occasion. It had transpired that the fable carefully filtered to her by her noble friends in offhand anecdotes and clipped off comments had been disproved, the marriage act was not one to be endured rather enjoyed. Or perhaps for others it was and Clary was simply fortunate in her partner, who had set about diligently demonstrating to her just how much pleasure their bodies could offer them. To the point that even in the rare moment that he made no advances, like now, at least a small part of Clary craved it.

Despite her many ponderings Clary smiled against the corner of her pillow and tucked her arm beneath it, turning her head slightly so he would hear her replying lie, "You are the insatiable one, not I."

"Hmmm," he murmured noncommittally, fingers curling against her waist while he pressed a weary kiss to the top of her ear. Beyond that he made no move to take her again, curling himself around her and settling down to fall asleep again. She knew that for all that flirtation they had done more than enough for one night and thoroughly exhausted themselves.

It was a single needling thought that kept her from sleep, the simple annunciation that had been weighing on her lips for days and pricking at her tongue. Still she held her tongue. Because this would change everything, and not just between them. Clary had kept her suspicions to herself thus far, knowing Jace had thoughts flying through his head faster than minnows in a creek these days and umpteen plans to hatch and execute as it was, so she convinced herself he would not greet any distractions. She presumed he had fallen asleep again and she would have to hold off until the morning- the way she had been holding off for the next morning for the past four mornings- when he spoke again, "All… distracted…. been that way for days. S'wrong?"

At any other time his sleepy inquisition would have been endearing, but now she was too preoccupied to appreciate his sweetness. "Nothing is wrong. Not really. I-" her breath hitched slightly and then, suddenly the words that had been weighing on her just slipped out, "I am with child."

For the second that followed she could only lay there, stunned she had just blurted the news out into the gloom without even looking at him. She could not even be sure he had heard her, for he was completely still for a very long moment before she felt him tense as comprehension sank in.

"What?" this time there was no trace of fatigue in his tone.

"I am with child, Jace" She told him again, this time with more conviction. It did not have the effect she had been hoping for, it only pushed him deeper into silence, though she knew for a fact he was now wide awake. Hard as it was, Clary held her body and her tongue still until she could bear it no more before she rolled over to face him. "Speak to me," she tried to instruct firmly in the newly developed lady of the manor voice, her face now very close to his wide eyed gaze.

The hand reinstated on her hipbone tightened its grip, "You are sure?"

It took a great deal of effort not to shove him. "Yes, I am sure. Almost two months gone, I suspect, for I waited to tell you until I knew for certain."

Jace shook his head slightly, finally emitting a breathless, disbelieving laugh, eyes shifting away to peer incredulously over her shoulder before falling to hers, "My God. A child. Really?"

The shock had melted off his face and Clary noted with dazed relief that he seemed pleased. Better than pleased, judging by the way he grinned at her now, with pure joy and excitement. She had not seen him look so happy for so many long weeks, not since they were first married. "Really," she gladly confirmed allowing a smile of her own to spring up and mirror his.

At long last she had started take the weight pressing on his shoulders and crushing every guilty breath. Perhaps now, with some concrete hope for the future, he could finally forget the past.

He leaned over, kissing her just once, but deeply, adoringly, laughing slightly as he drew hand moved up to her shoulder, absentmindedly brushing her hair over her back once more and his fingers began to move in soothing circles there. "Clary… a child. I cannot believe it."

Clary giggled at his delighted mumbling and scooted back slightly to inspect his face properly, seeking out the best possible view of the smile that lingered there, "Can you not? What on earth did you think all of this-"she gestured to their interlaced bodies- "would led to?"

Jace shook his head again, as of yet still struggling to absorb it all. Even in the gloomy chamber she could detect the thoughtful gleam sliding into his gaze, "I did not think it would happen so soon. "

Clary shrugged, "I suppose it only takes once," she grinned again at him ruefully, "And it most certainly has been more than once, my love."

"I suppose so," Jace mused before his features froze once more and he pulled back, springing briskly up on his elbow, the sheets sliding further down his hips in a most distracting manner. "Dear God."

"What?" Her heart skipped a beat at the expression of horror he now wore, the harsh query slicing through the quiet room.

"You did not tell me. Not before I- A woman in your condition- and the way I just-" He glanced down at her naked form with something close to terror and Clary finally grasped the root of his panic, which sent her bursting promptly into laughter. She laughed until her ribs ached and her eyes watered, the mingling relief at having told him and having received a positive response feeding her merriment just as well as the embarrassment wavering across his face, "Clary! Don't laugh. I am trying to be serious."

"I know," his wife gasped out at last, slumping back against the mattress and reaching out to pull him with her, "I know you are. Trying to be concerned, that is. Well do not be. I am much stronger than I look. I have made some delicate enquiries and learnt that such goings on will not harm the child. That is a male constructed fear, I have been reassured. An old husband's tale if you will. My woman are firmly of the opinion that lying with a man during pregnancy does no harm, and I will take their opinions on childbearing over a man's any day." She refrained from telling him that she had also been reliably informed she would be inclined to want him even more as an effect of her condition, or that she had already begun to feel the impact of _that_ particular symptom. There was only so much excitement a man could take in one night.

He visibly relaxed, returning to press swift little kisses against her nose and lips, wrapping his arms around her once more.

They lay peacefully for a time, her head pillowed on his chest. "Your father will have to be told."

Clary sighed before she nuzzled closer drowsily, lips moving against his neck with her response, "Yes, but not yet. He will know soon enough. I want to keep it to ourselves, just for a while."

To her relief, Jace mumbled his agreement readily enough. With more than a little satisfaction Clary began to foresee that her husband would happily enslave herself to her every need and whim for the next few months. It inspired a little more daring and as she allowed her eyes to drift closed at last, she proposed with a final breath of laughter, "Let us be the ones keeping a secret for a change."

 _-00000000000000-_

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 _ **A/N: Hurrah! Clace baby!** **I say 'hurrah' ironically... I think.**_

 ** _Several things. Firstly and most importantly I feel the need to offer an explanation for Isabelle's behaviour. Number one, no she is not attracted to Valentine. Nor does she want to seduce him or intend to do that. She intends to use her bad reputation and gain some negative attention for herself so he will never in a million years consider her for Jonathan's wife. She doesn't yet know Valentine is far more interested in Clary's marriage and what it may produce. Beyond Clary, Jace and Valentine nobody at this point does. Whether or not that remains the case, you will just have to wait and see. Meanwhile, by buddying up to Jocelyn she is protecting herself slightly, she hopes Jocelyn will shield her from Jonathan himself, who will be making a reappearance soon. Overall,_** ** _Simon breaking things off with her has really hit her self esteem. She has started to think the worst of herself and that no one good could ever want her. Poor hen._**

 ** _Also, Alec has been laying low for a while, he will be back soon. I just wanted to sort Jace's head out a little and get the Clary pregnancy ball rolling first. I will be delving a bit more into Magnus, whose person and past still remain something of a mystery in this world._**

 ** _Finally, yes little Emma Carstairs will be taking part in this tale in the near future. While events will effect her, as a child her role will be initially background and minor. Later, not so much :) But that is not going to come into play in the next few chapters so don't get too hung up on it._**

 ** _I believe that is all for the moment. I will try and update again soon! xx_**


	27. Lions and Wolves

_**A/N: I LIVVVEEE. With my penchant for being extra af intact, as you can tell.**_

 _ **First and foremost can I just say a special thank you to Fairy Lights Never for the review! It genuinely made me smile! I don't know about my being magical, more of a mess if truth be told, but the kind words do motivate me!**_

 _ **So here you go!**_

* * *

"The lion cannot protect himself from traps, and the fox cannot defend himself from wolves. One must therefore be a fox to recognize traps, and a lion to frighten wolves." -(Machiavelli, _The Prince)_

* * *

 _Lions and Wolves_

 ** _Canal Street, Alicante, July 1537_**

"Magnus?" The path through the house, whatever its size, was well trodden enough by now that Alec ought to have been able to discard the creeping uneasiness he felt. Yet he found himself lurking with baited breath at the door to the master of the household's private parlour, nudging it open warily with his toe. Instead the peculiar hush of the place felt as though it were balanced as haphazardly as the mountainous stack of wallets encased in his tremblingly weary arms. Much too deceptively calm to be comfortable, Alec thought as he apprehensively shuffled sideways into the wobbling candlelight. Instinct bade him keep his rapidly rising and falling breaths as quiet as he could. As though the past half-year had been erased he felt like an intruder all over again, having crept unwanted into the private quarters. Desperate to see Magnus, Alec had carved on intrepidly, reassuring himself that when he did find the other man he would find his company wanted just as badly. Nonetheless, he made a point of easing the door backwards on slick hinges until he shut with a muted click.

It had been a long time since the once deliberately empty house had been their first and only haven from a world that would neither understand or tolerate their relationship. Eventually Magnus could delay no longer on hiring to replenish the depleted ranks of his domestic staff. If it had been merely a case of keeping up appearances Magnus may have left the underlings quarters vacant, but on a practical level such large residence needed a sizeable cohort of employees to keep it clean and hospitable. Magnus had recently told him in passing that having worked so hard and from most humble origins to possess the deeds to this house in the first place, he was not prepared to relinquish it. So now, if he wanted to see him Alec had to wade through shallow waters of over-helpful servants and stewards. Weeks later it remained odd to feign at needing a guide through the tangle of hallways and rooms he had come to know perfectly well, and even stranger to scrabble for some excuse for wanting to see Magnus in the first place. Or so he had thought before he faced the present abnormality of glaringly empty halls. Intensifying anticipation of some crisis raised Alec's skin to gooseflesh and set the hairs along his arms prickling.

"Magnus?" he called out tentatively, wincing at the clanging echo that bounced around the lofty ceilings and decoratively panelled walls. He deposited his paraphernalia on the nearest available flat surface and stretching out his aching forearms gratefully while he peered about him. Perhaps he should not have let himself in, but he had seen the lights in the upstairs window through the twilight and was used enough to the property to easily navigate himself round to the side door. Upon finding it off the latch for him, Alec had accepted that as invite enough. After having hawked all these documents all this way and paying twice the usual fare to a boatman who insisted the journey would take him against the tide, the young Frenchmen was not prepared to acknowledge the defeat of a wasted outing. Instead he opted to follow his instinct and what he knew of the man he sought to carry him to further into the familiar inner quarters.

He had more than Jace's administrative woes troubling his mind tonight. Alec had a list of reasons a mile long to want to stay in Idris; avoiding his family obligations- among which was an ever more urgent advantageous marriage- his parents ongoing stalemated war, staying with Jace and Izzy, staying with Magnus…

Officially the only thing preventing him from the return to his old home that was already months overdue was playing mentor to his newly ennobled friend. For the patience and diligence he had displayed in assisting with the running of the Broceland estate he was receiving a wage, but not one as handsome as he would have liked to make the hours of reading and sums bearable. Regardless, Alec kept his disgruntled thoughts private, now he knew the Brocleand books as intimately as the gospels he also knew that the slice of payment Jace was offering him was very generous considering his financial position. That knowledge added to the pain of accepting the coin in the first instance. Sadly the pressures of Alec's own family finances still lay around his neck as surely as a lord fashionable chain, stripping rapidly away at what few options had.

Ideally, he needed an official court position with Valentine. He had contemplated vying for the now open position of French ambassador but he had known even as Jace offered to employ what limited influence he had to assist his oldest friend in getting the job, diplomacy was no more his calling now than it had been a year ago. He remained too transparent, which was ironic. Having hidden his true nature successfully all his life Alec liked to think he was better than most at telling others what they wanted to hear, but only as a force of habit. He had not the charisma or tact for intricate political dealings. His bluntness was more like to inflame foreign tension than dissolve it. Some other position then may have to satisfy him then, perhaps as some level of treasurer given his talent for numbers.

Alas, that may have been easier had he any manner of sway over King Valentine. As things currently stood His Majesty had no reason to appoint a foreign born nobody to anything, anywhere. He had no connection like Jace's, though through his mother's line he had some claim to an old Idrisian name it was not a royal one. Furthermore, the Idrisian lands that had come in her dower had been sold long ago, Alec had been told with crisp candour by his mother. All he did have was am enigmatic three-day-old letter from the Duke at Chatton, reassuring him that with thanks to some recent development Jace could not impart yet he had a very good reason to hope he might ask some favour of the King on Alec's behalf.

At first Alec had been bewildered, now after folding and unfolding the document so many times to scrutinise it for a hidden message he had yet to extract if it was there at all, he was merely perplexed. Perhaps with the experience under his belt that Alec had not, Magnus might be able to translate or explain exactly what political leverage Jace was insinuating he had.

Demanding as they had once felt, these worries scattered faster than the feeble fluffy stems of a dandelion clock in the first breeze once he encountered the silence of the house on Canal Street. The ill mood and tension hanging over the house was enough to silence Alec's clamouring worries in turn. Recently Magnus had been out of sorts, he recalled, grumbling of many ambiguous affairs that might hold him in Alicante and expressing, if anything, reluctance to join the court on progress. In fact, yesterday at Princewater he had muttered an admittance of indecision as to whether he ought to take to the road in the King's train at all. Yet for all his distraction of late and apparent dismay at the season's demands, Magnus would not make himself scare without so much as a farewell or an excuse, would he?

The unease fizzing along Alec's skin finally settled like a loadstone in his chest. It was not as if Magnus had never disappeared before. That had been an entirely different situation, he sought to soothe himself even as his footfalls clanged around the eerily barren rooms. Then he had feared for his life and the two of them had not been so close. This had felt like a mere dalliance then, a fleeting fancy. Before either of them would have dared describe it as love.

That did not dismiss that Magnus had been on edge, or that he had evidently ben withholding something. Alec had not thought to extract any kind of confession, occupied enough with his own difficulties and suspecting he would only be laughed off and his fears dismissed. Like they always were. Now he fretted that made him disloyal, or worse, appear too selfish or uncaring. He could be accused of having many an undesirable quality, but Alec Lightwood had never considered himself self-absorbed, or imagined anyone would have cause to see him thus.

Unloading the last of his papered burden, Alec mentally shoved his anxieties aside. By straining his ears now that he could, at long last, detect voices. Intuitively, upon recognising both a female and a male tenor and then detecting the spiked energy of an argument among the climbing volume of the discourse, his first urge was to retreat. He had experience enough of such quarrels from his parents that he knew a wide berth was best applied to such situations. Small wonder his muscles bunched for flight, it seemed for an awful moment he had been transported back into the world of his sorriest childhood moments. But as the toes of his leading foot hovered over the lowest step on the stairs leading to the master's bedchamber he found himself frozen instead. One of those speaking was unmistakably Magnus- he would have known _that_ voice waking or dreaming. And for the other to be a women's in such an altercation… almost of its own accord his foot skipped onward to the second step (the one which did not creak) and the rest of his body followed. Several more were bounded lightly up in a similar manner until Alec found himself tensing to a still again, this time more decidedly within earshot.

"How much clearer need I be? I tell you no again and again, always living in hope that this time you will heed it."

The woman, whoever she might be, scoffed, unperturbed. "As always Magnus, you flatter yourself." With frantic keenness, Alec's ears drank in the low, easy surety of her voice; its sensual rasp and flowing confidence, then the slightest edge of an accent dragging her vowels until a sense of familiarity scrabbled infuriatingly at his mind. He knew this woman and he had certainly met her before somewhere. Who the devil was she?

"This is strictly business," She continue winningly, "Admittedly I do flatter you in the asking. There is no one else I would extend this offer to once, let alone multiple times." She sighed heavily, and briefly exasperation grated away some of the dark honey of her tone. But since Alec heard that, it was also enough to snare her notice and accordingly she drizzled some more sweetness into her next purr, a sprinkling of rare sugar from the Americas, "But for the sake of an old friend…"

The answering laugh surprised Alec in its sour mockery, "We have known each other long enough and well enough to dismiss the pretence of friendship by now, surely."

The unnoticed eavesdropper on the stairwell chanced some more weight on the banister, craning to see if he might snatch a glimpse of the mystery lady who claimed to know his lover so well, startled by the contempt in Magnus' reply. "And I also know too well how happily and unscrupulously you mix business and pleasure. Your _business_ -" he sounded as though there were a plethora of unsavoury names he might substitute for the term- "has no place in my life now. Nor do you."

All Alec could glimpse to his frustration were the flickering shadows of the two figures cast on the Arabian carpet before the ajar door, as the duo paced and circled one another. The returning feminine laugh was sultry as it was cruel, her next speech silky soft and sweetly chiding "Oh Magnus. You make such a pretty picture with that stance on your high horse it is almost a shame to knock you off it." Even her teasing tuts fell nicely on the ear, "You are so quick to demonise, but do think twice before you spit on me. You forget when you do so that you and I are one and the same."

Magnus made to protest, "You and I are nothing alike, Camille."

The name ought to mean something to him and it did, but while he fought to keep up with the rapid volley of words above him it kept twisting just out of Alec's grasp.

"You forever seek to delude yourself, but alas- you never quite succeed, do you?" Her voice hardened, the words now clear and sharp as diamonds, "We both know it cannot be escaped; what we come from, where we come from, who we were. What we were. It will always have a place in your life, as in mine."

"Yes you share my past, which I cannot deny." Magnus corrected, almost too quietly for Alec to hear, "But not my present and certainly never my future."

"You never have been a fool, darling." The light, teasing admonishment remained, but the underlying viciousness kept mounting and Alec watched the two wavering shadows move closer and merge. "Do not start now." He longed to barrel through the door and push this Camille away, possibly even out one of those mighty windows, but he stayed where he was, tense and desperately curious for whatever clues to Magnus' elusive past this woman might drop, however maliciously.

"You know my house is profitable. A man like you can always discern where money is to be made and wants to make it. You will need to make it. Come, you must know your days at court are numbered. Yes, Queen Jocelyn liked you and the King tolerates you but you must know you disgust the lot of them. The likes of you, a bastard born gutter rat from the docks, living a better life than most of those who have got titles and pomposity stretching back centuries? That has to be scorned. And that revulsion is for your common origins alone, imagine if they knew just how sordid those beginnings were? Imagine the catastrophe of their learning how that first windfall fell into your lucky lap?"

"Camille," a warning growl.

One that went unnoticed and the whistling rustle of what might have been a feathered fan did nothing to veil the biting, poisonous laughter, "Truthfully they would be glad to hear of it. The first opportunity to get destroy you and they gratefully seize it." The lilting pitch of a female's voice did not suit the next ugly words," You expect any of those noble pricks to care for or about you? You will always be city scum from the slums in their eyes. Even that precious blue eyed lord of yours thinks it, all the while he fucks you."

"Do not dare speak of him!" Alec had never heard Magnus raise his voice before, but the shock of it was not solely what made him bolt soundlessly down the few steps he had climbed now, his sweat damp fingers curling so tightly around the base of the wooden ball at the foot of the banister that they hurt.

She continued intently, the tone blanketing her words changing from whip to bandage, "I have never lied to you Magnus and I do not mean to start. He might bed you for now but never imagine he loves you. You are his dirty little secret, that is all. He will still marry another pretty little gentlewoman when the time comes and keep you buried with his shame. And you know all of this to be true. So do enlighten me, why so obstinate, dear heart? Who else could ever know all of you and love it?" The malice plummeted away from her now as if it had exhausted her. When she spoke again it was persuasively pleading, "Why fight it? You know where you belong. You know to who you belong. I have always taken care of you." She proclaimed it in something of a wounded whine.

"You have always used me." Alec had never heard Magnus sound so flattened, so pained. It drove him to angle himself in the clustered shadows so that he could finally peer properly up through the brightened slice between ajar door and wall into the upstairs room. He could only see the profile of Magnus's face, a furrowed dark brow, long nose and quivering pearl earring. Of Camille all that was visible was a raspberry coloured sleeve ringed by Magnus' slim fingers as her hand was snatched away from his face.

"I may never belong anywhere, but wherever I am I will find myself better off than I would be with you. If you cared so much for my happiness you would leave me be and let me enjoy the life I built for myself. You have no right to be jealous of it Mille, nor any cause to despise it. Other than, mayhap, when I offered to share all I had and all I was with you, you refused." For a moment, he sounded pitying, then he grew stern again, "Now the offer is no longer on the table."

"Magnus-"

"Nothing could compel me to take anything more to do with your business for as long as I live. Not even you. Would I could wish you success with it, but we both know I cannot." Softer, he added, "It is not too late for you either. You are still young, there is still time for you to learn a trade or find a husband. Sell the house, buy a fare abroad or a country manor. You are not beyond saving."

Camille laughed again, though it was not as spiteful as before it remained disdainful, "And you are not beyond damning, Magnus Bane." She whispered something else afterward that Alec could not hear, but that was far from his primary concern, not when it dawned upon him too late that her last comment was a parting blow and the chamber door was whipped open to reveal his loitering. The unlit lower level and his listening spot had once been swamped in shadow but the flaming orange light of the setting sun pouring from the huge window and through the door streamed down the stairs banished them and temporarily blinded Alec.

By the time he had blinked enough to see clearly again, the full horror of his position became obvious. Firstly, he took stock of an ashen Magnus, looking down on him sickened with worry as to how much of the previous exchange he had been privy to, his usually tan skin bleached a sickly white against the loud crimson of his doublet. Then, with even heavier, grimmer dread, Alec turned to look properly upon Camille for the first time.

Contrary to Magnus' dumbstruck distress, the only emotion upon this woman's exceptionally exquisite face was a snide quirk to the corner of her mouth and a menacing delight shimmering in the jade green of her eyes. Even Alec, who had less cause than most to care for a woman's physical beauty was arrested by her beauty; the smooth alabaster creaminess of her skin, the sweet symmetry of her face, the ripe plumpness of her lips and the long, curling lashes that surrounded keen, glimmering eyes. She was bareheaded, he noticed next, though she must have been well in her twenties and surely no maid, her flaxen curls pinned up in what looked a series of complicated, elaborate twists and braids. _Milk and honey_ he thought shakily. In lieu of a cap or veil for propriety or modesty, a tortoiseshell and gold clasp adorned her head, securing a swathe of black feathers instead, more of the same coal coloured feathers forming the lowered fan clutched laxly in her right hand. As she drew forward, descending the stairs every bit as regally as any queen or princess Alec had ever encountered, he realised that her lashes had been artificially darkened and lined with kohl. It only made her jewel bright eyes all the more captivating, though they stayed just as cold and unfeeling as stones- even precious ones. Beyond that, he could also appreciate her face had been powdered and so revised his precious assumption, she was more likely to have crossed thirty. Not that dulled her beauty greatly, there was not a spare ounce of flesh on her anywhere, beyond the generous bosom even more generously displayed to the point that the young Frenchman felt compelled to avert his gaze from that and tightly clinched slender waist.

Now he remembered when their paths had first crossed: it had been the night of Magnus' party, the night Alec had first met him. She had been clad in only her corset then, he blushed to recollect, and stoking up an argument on that occasion too. He was innately immune to feminine charm, but beyond that, Alec liked to think that not even her dazzling loveliness and the memory of the sirens' call of her lyrical voice would make him forget the awful things she had uttered. Particularly about him.

She finally swayed to a halt, right before him, and while he towered over her it took the whole reserve of Alec's self-control not to take a step backwards. "Ah!" she declared, lifting her brows as though she had just been handed an unexpectedly delightful gift. Magnus, watching in a miserably injured silence from above was no help at all as Camille released her hold on the fan and let it swing slackly in mid-air, still bound to her narrow wrist by an ebony satin ribbon. To Alec's horror her eyes skimmed up and down him as if she were assessing the breeding capabilities of a prize horse and then, without dropping or dimming her smug, seductive smile her hand shot out to cradle Alec's face. Carefully cut, polished nails nipped into his flesh as she tilted her head and let that smile grow, "So pretty," she crooned, finally letting her hand drop, fingers lingering just below his jawline. This time Alec let his limbs obey his longing and did leap backward, quick as he might have down had she pressed steel there rather than her fingertips.

She hummed amusedly, eyes flashing triumph before she drew back altogether. Loath to leave Alec's thoughts the opportunity to gather themselves, she sprang forward again, this time with what would have been a friendly or maternal double slap to his cheek- had they not been landed a tad too sharply.

Allowing his jaw to tighten, Alec let a stiff, quick breath skid down his throat. If only he had some clever, scathing comment at his disposal to parry with, but he was not Jace or Magnus and any coherent thinking was lost in the blank hostility wiping his mind slate clean. He stood unmoving, determined not to let anything other than distaste become apparent in his stance or expression while he stared Camille down. Perhaps because she despaired of provoking him to a fight or worse, because she deemed herself already the victor and him unworthy of one altogether, Camille breezed past Alec and for the exit with all the measured poise and deliberation of a dancer, timing perfectly the provocative rolling of her shoulders and hips. Seeping the seemingly effortless grace of someone who knew how to attract attention and how to hold it. Camille made Isabelle look like a cheap imitation, she went further and did it better. Isabelle played at being the seductress, the femme fatale, this woman was not playing.

On shaking, numb legs Alec climbed the staircase. As he approached Magnus the only expression the other man was fit to conjure was a sickened acceptance. Wordlessly (what words could fit this moment?) Alec hesitated, leaving their eyes locked, then stepped past him and into the chamber. Magnus tilted his body to the side and let him pass, turning around to face Alec again with a stronger look of grieved acknowledgement. A rabbit in a snare, confronting the impossibility of escape. The conversation he had always shied away from, the questions he had always batted aside with an easy jest or wry comment could not be evaded any longer. And though Alec's heartstrings jerked painfully at the desolation in his lover's slumped body, he still rejoiced. Now there could truly be no more secrets between them. Or at least significantly fewer secrets.

Magnus gestured defeatedly to the seat opposite, as though he expected some harsh words and a bolt for the door to be the more likely outcome, but Alec only retreated until the backs of his legs skimmed the edge of the cushion. He refrained from sitting, hoping that by remaining standing he would gain more answers. This time he could not appear like a man to be trifled with or lightly dismissed. Shakily Magnus poured himself a tall glass of wine and lowered himself back into his own seat and took a long draught from his cup, a sudden slice of withering sunlight from the window darted off the metallic rim like a spark as he cast his arms wide in a half shrug half surrender motion. "What can I say?"

"Who is she?" Alec growled, unease and impatience rendering him dogged. Then, pushed further into dissatisfaction by Magnus' continued tight-jawed silence, he tried to lure out more information with a prompt. "The last times our paths crossed you called her Lady something. Yet she had never appeared in court in my time here."

Magnus yielded a scoffing laugh. "Camille Belcourt is no more noble than my bootlaces. She calls herself Lady Belcourt in jest. It is, like so much she says and does, a mockery. Because she has had so many 'dealings' with the nobility she declares herself eligible for a title. Since she spends more time with the gentlemen of Idris than their wives do." His lips lifted in what could have been a grimace, a smirk or a sneer. Yet to Alec's ears the following pronouncement held more sadness than derision, "She is by profession… I believe the term she prefers is a courtesan."

Alec was suddenly glad of the chair behind him as his knees weakened and he sank into it.

He was not entirely simple, he knew every city had its sordid underbelly and Idris was no different. Then again, it was one thing to know such things existed and another to face them in his lover's lobby. For several reasons Alec had never found cause or desire to encounter a lady of the night, but he was certain whatever preconception of such a woman he had was challenged by Camille Belcourt. It did not come a surprise really, given what he had seen of her countenance and dress, but to hear Magnus confirm it so calmly was jarring nonetheless.

"Or rather she was. I do not believe she sells her services any longer. Now she sells those of others instead. Today she can boast of being Madame to the city's most profitable brothel."

After a long, uncomfortably tight moment of silence Alec ungritted his teeth long enough to voice the real cause of his agitation, "You speak as though you are well acquainted."

Magnus did not meet his eye, glancing sidewise at Alec and then focusing on some freshly fascinating spot behind him. "If it consoles you any I have never paid for her services. But…" Magnus closed his mouth and swallowed laboriously, like he had a mouthful of dirt to chew and digest, "I have known her for a very long time."

"You are friends?"

"Lord no. Camille has no friends. Only investors, clients and the poor girls she calls investments." He said nothing further, just took another swig of wine and swirled the cup in his hand afterward distractedly. Alec was made to contend with the now all too familiar feeling that there was something Magnus was not telling him. It bothered now worse than ever. He had spent the weeks since his return to the city slowly verbalising the thoughts that haunted him. The things he had witnessed and done in the King's service, things he could not speak of even to Jace who had been with him all the while. Anyone could see those things tormented his friend twice as viciously given his name attached forever to the killing, because he loved Valentine's daughter, because the spirit of the little boy who had never known security or real, unconditional love still clung to him and so part of him would always long to be Valentine's son. Meanwhile Alec had bared the ugliest parts of his soul to this man and getting Magnus to utter aught personal remained an exercise akin to pulling teeth. All his recent activity, the determination to immerse himself in work, in Jace's problems and now Magnus- it was all a matter of creating distractions from his own.

He sought to say as much now, "Considering all that has passed between us, I doubt there is much you could say that would shame or repulse me."

"Is that so?" Temporarily his eyes flickered over Alec's, the fast fading natural light shadowing half his face again as Magnus turned back, "It seems otherwise when the word courtesan- and it is the nicest one for such a thing there is- seems enough to make you either vomit or swoon. Possibly both."

Alec had experience enough with sarcasm as a deflection technique to remain on course, though he did flinch at the hidden hurt in Magnus' voice. He knew it to be purely defensive. Magnus simply could not bear for Alec to judge him harshly.

So he cleared his dry throat with a grimace, "Common misunderstanding. I am not snobbish, simply awkward. I forever fail to say what I mean and when I do try it comes out all garbled and wrong. Picking the right words is nigh on impossible, however much I endeavour to. But I think you will be the first to believe me when I say this, women in general put me in edge so being confronted so overtly with their sexuality renders me beyond uncomfortable."

Magnus laughed a little and rubbed roughly at the shadow of stubble covering his chin. He did not look as though he had either slept or shaved. When he next spoke he sounded distant and more than a little lost, "I have known Camille a very long time. We grew up together, she and I." Another interminable pause and then, so softly Alec almost failed to hear it, "In a pleasure house on the strand."

Alec did not reply. He knew not what he could or should say to that anyway, and he also suspected if he left Magnus to say whatever he felt able to at his own pace he would hear more. Magnus' nimble fingers tugged on the end of his glittering silver chain as the next array of words came tumbling slowly out.

Firstly as a pebble rolling down the mountain, then an avalanche of confessions, "I was born a long way away, it matters not where or to whom. I have never known who my father was, only that he and my mother were never wed. So not only was I born poor, but a bastard on top of that. She did marry when I was a babe, out of desperation. To put a roof over our heads and some measly meals in our bellies. The man she did marry, well he was more of a bastard than I ever have been, just not by birth. He was a small-time merchant who expected absolute gratitude and obedience from Mama because he had stooped to take her to wife in the first place. She was younger and prettier than he could have hoped for anyway. No woman like her who was would have married him unless she were fallen.

'We travelled to Idris for his floundering business and my mother perished on the voyage here. My stepfather took me to the brothel and sold me, effectively. I never saw him again, for which I can only be grateful. I was small and obedient and had my mother's fair looks so I was brought into the house as a cup bearer to begin with.

'I suppose I could be thankful for that man's greed, for it drove him to a higher class of whorehouse, where the then Madame had more coin than any other to spare for such a purchase. I was perhaps nine or ten at this time." He drank some more before going on, "On my first night there I curled up by the hearth in the kitchen. An orphan in a strange land where I spoke very little French and no German at all, so I understood naught that was said to me. Grieving, frightened and half starving I lay there crying myself to sleeping and wishing I could die so that at least then I could go to heaven and be with my mother again. That was where Camille saw me. She was older then, sixteen or so, and already one of the working girls. I understood none of that then, to me she was simply the only one who took pity on me. She brought me a cup of water when my throat was so dry from sobbing I thought I might choke and gave me her shawl as a blanket to sleep in. She was the one person in the whole world apart from my mother who had ever shown me such a kindness. It also helped that she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen." Magnus added the final comment with a whisper of a smile. "I can still remember than shawl you know. It smelt of her floral perfume and it was green like her eyes. She remained the most beautiful woman to me even after I met the rest of the girls, all of whom had to be especially lovely to work in that particular establishment. They were pleasing lords and the very wealthy, a night with any of them cost what most workers make in a year, you see."

"I started off scrubbing the floors and aiding the cook, then in the evenings they would clean me up and have me carry a platter of wines or sweetmeats to the clients. At first life there was hard, I worked hard and for very little. I was never paid a wage, I laboured for my little slip of earth by the hearth to sleep on and a crust of bread or so. Sometimes Camille would sneak me a cut of meat from her own plate.

'Because they did feed me and I was not cast out to beg on the streets and live as an urchin I was expected to be grateful for all of this too. When I grew older I did grow into the good looks the Madame had glimpsed when she had thrown a few pennies down to keep me out of the gutter. So I was put to work like the others. For the first time in my life I had my own bed and finally regular hot meals. Of course each time night fell all of that came at a cost, but I stayed there because I had nowhere else to go. I could not read or write, I had no trade. It was my only option and at times I almost managed to convince myself it was not a bad one. For years Camille was the only one who gave a damn whether I lived or died. I never forgot her care and in time we became close in earnest. As time passed we soon became the most popular there. My ability to please men and women alike made me much sought after and as you have witnessed yourself to a degree, Camille has her own special charms. We became the Madame's favourites, her protégées. I did not spend my free hours in idleness, I learnt to write gradually and by wandering the docks I picked up a comprehension of many tongues. Camille and I were not like the others, we were not simply seeking to subsist on shards of attention from the clientele, we were not empty pretty things. Unlike everyone else in that house were not ignorant or devoid of hope that better lives were possible. We cared how the money was made, how the business was run and the Madame delighted in showing us. Eventually, whether she knew or not, Camille and I found our friendship grow into something more."

"We became lovers," he confessed quietly, unashamedly and a touch sorrowfully. "At the time I imagined no one had ever loved as we had. That we were soulmates. I also believed, and Camille fostered and encouraged this, that being what I was no one else would understand enough to love me. In hindsight, I suspect Camille played at returning my affections because she saw me as a rival for the brothel. The Madame was old and sickening and not long for this world, so she wished to make sure that even in the worst case scenario, should I inherit the business, as my lover she would still have some stake. I think, having sold herself for most of her life, Camille is unable to view such a thing as not having a price. She cannot love simply for the sake of being loved in return, she cannot trust far enough to let someone love her without thinking it needs to have some material benefit. As it transpired, we both inherited half. I had no desire in remaining as I was, or in putting others through all I had endured so I could take a profit. Camille thought otherwise. I convinced myself that she was frightened because she had known nothing else. That we had all been raised to see that brothel as all that stood between us and destitution and that I merely had to convince her there was more. I was content to sell my share in the house and Camille gladly bought it, at a unfairly low price I also know now. Then I was young and still naïve and still too blinded by what I thought was love to see that she was steering me exactly where she wanted. I thought to make an honest woman of her, so I urged her to sell the brothel altogether and marry me."

He shrugged with unconvincing carelessness and snorted as he looked over to catch Alec's brows shooting upwards toward his hairline. "It sounds as ridiculous to me now as it did to her then. She laughed in my face and waved me on my merry way. That was five years ago."

'I cannot pretend Camille has given me nothing in this life. She taught me to be cunning- how to survive. Then, by making me use all that I had learned to escape and protect myself from her, she unwittingly showed me how to recognise those who would trap me, especially when they would do it with sweet words and insincere promises."

Magnus cleared his throat, clearing his mind too to the present. Some colour stained his face at last, while his focus returned to the present and to the man perched avidly before him. "For a time I did have to live rather modestly, believe it or no, until I made my first court contact." With that, the gates began to clatter down around his heart once more, shielding more recent, tender hurts and travails as Magnus quietly insisted, "Which is a story for another time, assuredly."

After pushing his cup onto the precarious ledge of the nearby table, he let his hands drop and faced Alec at last. He let his fingers wind together, not before Alec had noted them shaking, and stared at his knees. "You would think, enduring all she has in this world, she would at least run her business more humanly than her predecessor. I certainly know she has a capacity for kindness. Alack, by all accounts she has emerged the exact replica of the Madame she was moulded to be.

My endeavours, on the other hand, have proved to be equally as lucrative and more honestly conducted, for the most part. This much was confirmed to me several years ago when she approached me again. At first to rekindle our romance and later, when that did not end to her satisfaction, she tried to tempt me to invest back in the brothel again. As when she came here today."

Now Alec did baulk, yet not in response to the discovery of Magnus's previous employment. He found himself more greatly disturbed by the prospect of Magnus falling back into the arms of an old flame, one he had such history with and whom he had openly admitted to loving deeply. A woman no less. "You never thought to accept her?" His throat felt twice as thick as normal, but he managed to grate out the worst scenario he could envision, "Or rephrase your proposal?"

Surprise quivered across Magnus's face, that after all he had just spoken of this was the part Alec wanted to discuss. "Once I did think I might get the happy ending I dreamed of as a boy. But eventually the time came to admit I have always been more in love with the thought of Camille. I have adored the person I want her to be rather than the one she is. All she has ever done since that epiphany is prove me right. You saw that for yourself earlier! She cannot bear to have me happy. She cannot bear to think that when all has been said and done I came out the other end better than her. That I could be complete without her."

Now Alec ducked his head, thinking furiously how to phrase what he wanted to ask next, "And…" he played with a loose thread at his sleeve, "Do you truly think you can be?"

"Alexander," Magnus said his name so crisply Alec had to look back properly at the other man's disbelief, "Is that truly what you wish to ask me most?"

Alec spent the next, lengthy minute in fervent thought before concluding honestly, "Yes."

"After all I just said. About who I am. What I have done. I worked as a whore for seven odd years!"

"Yes. I heard and fathomed that detail." Alec waved his hand impatiently, hearing it stipulated once had been quite enough, before he sobered, "I am sorry Magnus."

"As am I." He had never seemed this upset before, always even in their most solemn moments there had been touches of bravado or teasing, "I cannot blame you. What could someone like you possibly want to do with the likes of me?"

"What?" Alec demanded sharply.

Magnus hesitated again, "You are sorry but you cannot see me anymore? Not like this? Is that not what you are trying to say?"

"No! God no!" He made himself take a deep, slow, steadying breath. He could not afford to verbally blunder here. He knew he may not survive the loss if he did. All of which meant he was shaking too when he did get words out, "I am sorry for all you have had to suffer, is what I mean to say. But I do not think that changes anything. It does not alter what I think of you."

"No?"

"No that was not wholly true. I think more of you now, to be truthful."

Shock and then some more profound emotion rippled across Magnus's features, "Alexander-"

"You are not to blame for anything that happened to you. You deserved none of it."

"You do not think of me as the worst kind of the despot the world has to offer?"

"On no account," Alec insisted sternly. "I think you someone who has had an unjustly difficult life. Someone who has had to survive the hardest of times, make the most difficult of choices. You have been unfortunate, you have had to do unfortunate things. I pity you for it, I do, though I admire you far more. All of what you have just told me, Magnus you survived all of that. Death, abuse, exploitation, heartbreak. You are not a victim of those things but a survivor. Someone who against all odds, despite the worst of circumstances and the worst of people has emerged with kindness intact. With hope and courage. Camille let that world claim her and she became what she hated. You are better, braver. You open yourself to the world, you dared to dream that there was goodness in that world, so you gave goodness to it. You let yourself live and love. That is remarkable."

"You are remarkable." Finally, he let his voice shake as he could not stop it doing so, not when Magnus was looking at him with those wide, damp eyes. He was staring at him as though he had just found something new, miraculous and wonderful. As if he had been lost at sea, alone and adrift for months and was at last witnessing the tantalising, tremoring , blurry line on the horizon widen and darken further. A straying sailor at last allowing himself to breathe the word 'land'. A man staring with amazement on his salvation, upon some undiscovered, untouched new world, one existing beyond all reason and all knowledge. Something new, something dangerous, something blessed: all that should not have existed and yet was here. What once he had hardly dared dream of take form undeniably before him. Very real after all.

 _-00000000000000-_

* * *

 ** _Chatton House, Broceland, late July 1537_**

It was a small miracle Clary had disguised her condition this long. After days of expectant glances at his daughter and keen appraisals of every exchange between the young Duke and Duchess, Valentine could sustain solely on suspicions no longer. For a man who could rely on a supply of endless patience when he had a scheme to enact, he had soon reached his limit of waiting for his daughter to break the good news of her own accord.

Clary had spent the morning packing the last of the things that would come on the road and back to court with her. It was a tedious, stressful travail at the best of times but now it was all the harder. Apparently, once a man entered wedlock he lost the ability or inclination to pack for himself, for now she was also burdened with the duty of deciding which of her husband's belongings to take too. She was irritable with the prospect alone, since the Duke and Duchess had already moved themselves and their belongings out of the house's best rooms so that the King could have adequate lodgings a fortnight ago. Now she had to move all their things again, and quickly, for they would were due to be on the road later today. Thus far, enacting her duty was no better than she had anticipated. Mercifully they had not too many things, having travelled relatively lightly from Alicante in the first place. Regardless, that did not alleviate the tedium of putting the final touches to their departure. Clary was trying to hearten herself by singing mentally the virtues of keeping busy, God willing all went well and there would weeks of careful idleness awaiting her before she gave birth.

Not that many were wise as to that. Thus far she had only spoken of her pregnancy to Isabelle, who would have guessed soon enough anyway and then to Simon, who had received it all in a shocked silence and seemed to be tottering around in a state of hazy disbelief ever since. Both of them she could rely on to keep hush and she knew Jace had yet to breathe word to a soul. The only person he cared to tell was Alec, and he had told her he did not want to impart the tidings by any medium that was not face to face conversation. Consequently he waited to tell his friend with Alec having, for some inexplicable reason, chosen to delay in Alicante. Izzy doubtless knew more than she uttered of his whereabouts, but Clary knew she would never betray her brother's secrets and so bade herself let the matter be.

Much as the beloved trio she had told of her pregnancy meant to her, and however much happiness their joy in the news had brought her, faced with the sudden reality of impending motherhood the one person after her husband Clary had longed to tell most in the world was her mother. She itched to confide in Jocelyn on every occasion their paths had crossed. In spite of that, each time the words had swelled up within Clary and threatened to spring free from her lips, something halted her.

Firstly, stubbornly, she kept it to herself because she felt that all Jocelyn had refrained from saying over the years had left her needlessly helpless in her new world. Even so an apology continued to look like an improbable event and by now Clary was dubious as to whether she really wanted one. She just wanted her mother. Understanding and emphatic as Lady Penhallow may be of her young mistress's condition, it was no substitute for her real mother's knowledge and comfort.

However, since her return to court all Jocelyn had done was silently shadow the King. She had become an entirely mute, meek presence on his arm, adopting an utter passivity with an ease that astonished Clary. She had grown up with a fiercely thinking and fiery spoken woman, not to mention the definite sense of a crackling animosity between her mother and absent father. Now she was faced with a woman who seemed as if she had never been other than Valentine's creature. That most of all saw Clary's restraint and fed the anxiety that she needed to hoard whatever secrets she could. She knew full well that the instant Valentine became aware that his greatest plan was finally bearing fruit and that his goal was within grasp he would want and need complete control over Clary again. She would be bundled back into his safekeeping, only even more intensely watched and controlled than she had been before. After what little respite she had tasted from his domineering Clary was not sure she would ever be ready to surrender, however temporarily, the small freedoms she had tasted since becoming Jace's wife.

Now she had to accept that her time was up. The final, undeniable proof that the last grain of sand had landed in the bottom half of the glass timer came with a young Morgenstern liveried page's quiet order for the Duchess to attend an audience with the King. With a final scan around chambers heaving with the final frenzy of activity before taking to the road, Clary concluded that her women had matters well in hand and her presence would not be missed for the time being.

If only the fates had been kind enough to offer her some excuse to postpone the anticipated annunciation a little longer. Alas, short of having been fatally maimed Clary could think of naught else she could beg to be excused with. Sullenly she fell into step behind the page sent to fetch her (as though there were some risk of her getting lost on her way to Valentine in her own house!) and soon was warily skirting her way into his newly adopted presence chamber.

"Her Grace the Duchess of Broceland, Your Majesty" the herald boomed before her and Clary hastened onward, trying to create the fullest picture of her surroundings possible before she had to creep toward her father with her eyes pasted to the ground. From the way in which the distracted muttering of the loyally loitering handful of lords momentarily lapsed and then resumed more vigorously once Clary passed, she realised her unexpected female presence would be stirring imaginations for at least the next half hour.

While Valentine may forge south annually to chase the best weather his kingdom had to offer, he could not devote the season to leisure alone. The cares of state tailed him in the form of these lords and secretaries, all of them needing some legislation signed off on or amended, or coin for some scheme, or even just the King's attention while they pursued some position. And now these forever disgruntled, conceited band of toadies seemed set to pry on her most personal matter of all. With some dejection, she also had to accept that Jace was not amongst them, leaving Clary alone to fall to the necessary round of obeisance with even less enthusiasm than she customarily had for such things. Privately a small curtsey would have sufficed but as she was to be cursed with an audience she had to fall without hesitation to her knees and settle for peeking reservedly up at a pair of neatly polished boots.

Valentine immediately rose from his throne, whereupon to Clary's mingled dread and alarm he raised her from her curtsey not with a calm command, but with a fatherly chuck under the chin. She raised a small smile with the rest of her body as she met the King's ardent gaze, as if she could not guess what this was about. He wasted no more time, beckoning to her almost playfully as he jumped down from his borrowed pedestal in the rooms that would forevermore in Clary's mind be _hers,_ and ushered her into the adjoining private chamber.

"Good afternoon Clarissa", Valentine waved another posted page away, only stopping him sort of closing the door. He could not bear to have no witnesses at all for this, even if the magnitude of this moment would escape them for the time being. All of which enabled Clary to see for herself the dissatisfied curiosity she had brought upon His Majesty's minions. They were exasperated that she was wasting the precious time they could have used to bask in the King's interest. Little did they know she may well be carrying their future monarch.

Close to amusement at the small mindedness that usually would have driven her to a similar frustration, Clary was drawn back to the present by her father, who in the absence of any immediate retainers had taken it upon himself to do her the rare honour of pouring a glass of wine for her himself. Carefully, Clary took the delicate silver vessel and then the chair her already seated sire signalled for her, holding her face as pleasantly neutral as possible while Valentine expressed his affectionate concern for her health. It would seem a dutiful whisperer had dropped into his ear that the Duchess was recoiling from certain foods she had until now always loved, while conversely was expressing ravenous desires for others she had never been fond of before- (quail's eggs, of all things!). Finally, as Valentine referenced with kindly impatience now, she had also been sick in the mornings.

"Are you well, daughter? It seems this ague is disinclined to lift. We can send for a city physician."

Clary buried a sigh in the thrumming silence which followed the inquisitive commentary. It was not as though she could have kept it hidden indefinitely, but her luck had held far enough that she had dared to think it could endure a little further. At least while all of this was still becoming slowly real to her with each new startling change in her body. Even when the court had come to Chatton and she knew it to be proclamation to be impending, she had imagined she might let Jace impart the news. Doing so should serve to remind her father of his young Duke's service and value. Better yet, it may dilute the horror of the last report Jace had made. Now she found herself trapped between the King's impatient expression and a room full of lords craning to see what manner of conversation they had been excluded from. She could shrug it aside no longer; not when Valentine could not disguise a desperation for her to confirm his suspicions so intense it looked not unlike physical pain.

So, sweeping her reluctance and resentment away Clary donned a sheepish smile and spoke with soft conviction. "Nay, Sire. I am perfectly well. I refrained from confiding in you before as I wanted to be certain it was true and proceeding as it ought to…" She dragged out a pause as long as she dared. God it was delightful to have Valentine hanging on _her_ every word for once- it made her feel powerful, "I am to have a child, Father."

She had also pictured several times how exactly the King might greet the news that his ambitions were to be satisfied. Her wildest conjuring could not have prepared her for how Valentine sprang out of his seat like an excited schoolboy, his face holding perhaps the most emotion Clary had ever seen upon it as he seized her hands and swooped in to land a kiss on her cheek. "This is glorious news indeed!" He kissed at her hands too, from outside the ajar door to the audience the anxious, curious buzzing of the abandoned courtiers and advisors rose at the exclamation. Clary froze, watching bemused as her father straightened again. "When?"

"The new year."

His eyes shone, sleekly polished onyx, as he cast them heavenwards, "God keep you and bless you." Then, on an afterthought, as if all of this had been the Lord's doing and had nothing to do with her at all he turned back to his daughter with low triumph. "May He and the Virgin send you a happy hour."

"Amen," Clary murmured, dipping her chin again, the din of her hammering heart clamouring her ears louder than Valentine's prayers, as if she had just run a race. She could admit to herself now she had started to wonder whether Valentine's plan to make her issue his heir still stood or no. When he had first told her of it the whole thing had sounded closer to madness than genius and besides, even had he discarded that plot her father would likely not have thought it necessary to inform her. Judging from his elated response, his intentions had not altered from Christmas. Her own thrill at that confirmation startled Clary too. Though, come to think of it that should be nothing unexpected. She was, whether she liked it or not, a Morgenstern. It would seem she had ambition as fierce as the rest of them and now it had just been woken.

 _My son will be King. I will be Queen Mother. Never a nobody again._

Not long ago it might have appalled her and the fear of such responsibility would have had her cringing, but instead the thought sent an excited determination forking through her veins like lightening. A fresh wave of dizziness set her whirling too and she doubted this onslaught of vertigo was solely due to the child she carried.

Weakly, she broke away and lowered herself downwards to the seat again slowly. "Forgive me" she muttered, starting to form some hasty excuse.

Valentine waved it aside, sitting opposite her again. His folded hands rested on the little table between them, thumbs tapping against one another as he grew thoughtful. "Is travel advisable?"

Clary was unsure if the question was directed to her or a rhetorical rambling aloud. She strove to answer it regardless, "I see no reason why not," Then, wincing, added, "But I think perhaps doing so on horseback may not be wise." Given her previous experiences she could not say with confidence that frets of her taking a bad fall which might harm her precious child were unfounded.

Valentine was nodding readily, "Assuredly. That goes without saying. There is sure to be a litter somewhere in this house." Evidently, the King had not thought to bring one; it had not occurred to him it would be necessary. There was a sort of humour in that itself, Clary considered with a tiny, rebellious twinge of mirth. One would think with the strength of his demand for a child from her it would have crossed Valentine's mind to bring some sort of symbol to remind her of the debt to him and Idris.

As though her thoughts on what the royals owed Idris had been read, the King's eyes and focus returned to the doorway and the many inquisitive ears and minds beyond. "I am afraid I must take my leave of you, my dear. My duties elsewhere demand my attention." He rose, but not before he brushed his hand against her cheek, staring down at her with a wistful awe and clear pride at the vessel of his divinely guided plans. The little girl that Clary had been not so long ago basked in the approval. She had come to court with the hope of knowing her father at last, of finding the fatherly love she had lacked all her life and proving herself a child he could be proud of after all. But she was buried and half-forgotten inside the hardened, remoulded version of her; the hardy, wily young woman this man, his court had the demands of both had shaped.

Meanwhile practicality established itself and His Majesty spoke again more briskly, though his exultance remained strong, "I shall issue new orders, we need not leave yet. There is time enough upon the morrow. You are not to be hurried or harried, we will not be pressing for Garrotway before nightfall. A delay should allow for travel at a more civilised pace."

Hearing the implicit dismissal, Clary rose tentatively. "Take care of yourself," Her father went on to instruct, as though that remark was all that might dissuade her from an evening's deadly snake charming. The Duchess bridled an eye roll just in time. She may as well adjust quickly to doing as Valentine said again. He had laid claim to the child in her womb and by proxy that meant her too, certainly while she carried his heir. "Send your husband to see me. He shall also have our congratulations immediately," The King called over his shoulder from the door in conclusion.

With that bidding, Clary willingly made her escape behind him, pausing only to dip a light farewell curtsey below her father, reinstated on the throne. Not very long ago she would have scurried away with her chin down, blushing at the heat of so many attentive eyes being on her. This time, she found she relished it. Let them look all they wanted, for she finally appreciated that they had wondered for so long if she would prove to be someone worth watching. Now she was.

She marched onwards, answering the searching stares of the King's men only with an aloof nod. She was their plaything no longer, not some toy they could amuse themselves making games with. Nay, now she was one of them. From now on she had her own stake in the game.

In fact, though they did not know it yet, she possessed the ace. And she was not going to humbly pass her child over, no matter what her father thought. _Her_ child, not Valentine's, and thus it would stay. While she carried his grandson, his preferred heir, she held considerable sway over her father. That gave her considerable room for manoeuver and everything to play for. Fuelled by this new, foreign sense of confidence and an unusual exhilarating feeling of empowerment, she strode out of the room with more energy than she had felt in days and bolder than she had felt in years. She moved with faultless grace and an unshakeable self-assurance, as though she had just been crowned and anointed queen. As her clasped hands bumped against the tiny, almost insignificant bulge of her belly secreted within the swell of her skirts, Clary reflected that she may as well have been.

- _000000000000000-_

* * *

Of course, after that it had been only a matter of hours before all became public court knowledge. The King had not crowed his triumph from the rooftops as he had longed to, cautioned by someone with sense that with Clary was still in the early, precarious days where too much untoward excitement was bad for her. Nonetheless, the circling, breezing rumours had quickly whipped to a hurricane once the King, though Clary was technically no longer his responsibility, had gifted her with a glorious new gown of blue and gold, every bit as fine as the Virgin Mary's robes and almost identical in hue, alongside a small chest of jewels. Where he could have procured such a dress from when he was miles from the city was a mystery, unless of course he had taken it with him from Alicante. Then, were she to assume that, Clary would have to take the next reasonable presumption that with no foreknowledge of her pregnancy Valentine must have originally intended to surprise her mother with it. Suspecting that, she was left disconcerted to be sure, but also snidely pleased. Never had she thought the day would come where she and Jocelyn would be in competition for Valentine's affections, yet here they were.

Bewildering as all that may be, Clary was not prepared to refuse such a gift, not with Jace still trying to find his footing as a noble at court and live up to his title. Besides, the initial rush of prospective power to her head had long since abated, leaving her cold and a touch unsure of herself. In the light of the following day all Clary was more aware that she had not put a son in the cradle yet and any number of things could happen between now and then. Sober and prudent once more, Clary thought upon how she had witnessed enough of the fleeting nature of Valentine's esteem to know she should capitalise on it while she could. Besides, the gown's measurements were near perfect for her- at least for the time being.

And then, as if any uncertainty still lingered to the effect, the undeniable substance to the rumours came in the form of the specifically commissioned litter for the Duchess when the court moved on westwards.

The final confirmation of just how tedious and slow this journey was like to be for the Duchess herself too, as she stood in the courtyard and confronted the cumbersome form of her special mode of transport. She was not in fine cheer as it was, having been plagued with an array of particularly realistic and unnerving dreams through a night of fitful sleep, which had left her stumbling out of bed for dawn Mass with fatigued limbs that felt more like logs than flesh.

Still, no good would come of her complaining, so she would have to grit her teeth and hope that among the many alarming and baffling changes her previously short supply of patience had also been lengthened. Anything ought to be better than her last calamitous journey with the court on the progress, she tried to tell herself sternly, bidding her final farewells to her staff and plucking up her skirts to climb up the stairs to the litter. Wincing a little as she flicked a dated, slightly moth-eaten curtain aside, her paltry attempt at optimism was almost crushed entirely. What did it matter how fashionable the damn thing was, she chastised herself mentally, so long as it kept her baby safe? She was to be a mother and she needed to stop being selfish if she was ever to make a good one.

Just as determination to that end began to take hold Clary was distracted again, this time by the arrival of Jonathan, stepping out of the shadowy gateway into the flashing sunlight. He blinked impatiently as his eyes struggled to come to terms with the sudden brightness. By the time the sun retreated behind another cloud and he could see clearly, he instantly wore the look of someone wished he had stayed half blind.

One could be sure he had been one of the first to get wind of what new gossip was being bandied about the court concerning his sister, but he must have given it no credence, or not fully considered it until now.

Unable to go on staring for fear of what she may see, Clary quickly ducked inside, unhappily not before she glimpsed the dangerously brittle surprise that flicked across her brother's handsome face like the crack of a whip as she clambered up into her seat. When she did peer out again he was on the move, not toward her praise be, but with the darkening genesis of a new tempest buried in the terseness of his expression. She now knew him well enough to grasp that he was holding onto his composure, but not without supreme effort. He knew not what this meant and every possibility his unsettled mind lurched to was worse than the last. Whatever appalling imagining he could conjure up could hardly be worse than the reality, Clary had to acknowledge, even if only to herself. It was not as if he had not been threatened with the prospect of her having a child before now, God help them all Clary had voiced threats to that effect herself. She just had to pray that the fact the father was not the King of France would make Jonathan feel secure enough to leave her and her child be. Jace had no army, no coin and nothing tangible with which to endanger Jonathan, not yet. But her brother was no idiot and he had his own spies and cronies. Worst of all, he knew their father too damn well. If anyone could sniff out Valentine's most secret intent, it was his son. Moreover, if the King kept making such a fuss soon even the scullery maids would detect there was more to this than there seemed.

Bitterly she acceded that if this was to be her welcoming gift to the Crown Prince she could not take it back now, squirming anxiously upon the plump cushions which lined the bench beneath her. She was wrapped up in her fearful thoughts so deeply that when the curtains were hauled back again without warning she leapt out of her skin. She had panicked visions of Jonathan dragging her out of the litter by the throat before she recognised the latest face to confront her.

Isabelle smirked down at her, oblivious to her palpitations, "I think your brother is going to be sick."

"I think I am going to be sick" Clary said shakily, feeling her heart thumping so fiercely in her throat that she felt she had swallow to push it back into her chest. Nonetheless, she had spoken true, and worries of her brother could not take all the credit for it. This constant nausea- well for loss of a more appropriate term- she was sick of it.

Izzy rolled her eyes with her usual touching sympathy.

"Are you coming with me?" Clary enquired hopefully just the same.

"Well when you invite me in the same breath you threaten to vomit with…"

"I will fight it. I am getting very good at supressing it."

"Nay," Her friend corrected loftily, "I heard Lady Penhallow telling you that once you passed your third month the sickness would ease off." The merriment faded, "Speaking of the Marchioness, much we both appreciate and respect her, think you not that you should be hearing such assurances from your own mother? You are lucky enough to have one that cares."

Clary tensed. It was nothing she had not thought herself, but hearing it put into words and forced to her attention still stoked her anger. "Ah why should she? Not when she has a new daughter and lapdog, surely."

If she had expected Isabelle to flinch, she was mistaken. Honestly, Clary believed a wild tiger could be set on Izzy and she would simply fix it with an unimpressed, disdainful stare crippling enough to send the creature whimpering back to its mother like a kitten. Now she barely blinked, "That is not true. As well you know, the likes of me do not make for obedient company." Then her dryness gave way to a sincere softness that made Clary almost wish for the irony back. "Truthfully, your mother was very upset that she had to hear from someone else that you were expecting."

Cursing her perpetually raw emotional state, Clary had to swallow again, this time to force down the heaviness of a sob rather than a quickened pulse. "Then she ought to have been there. She ought to have at least spoken to me, said something of more consequence than 'more wine?'"

"I know you blame her for a great deal Clary. I do understand. You think that had she been more open about the kind of man your father was and how he operates you would have been less naïve when you got here. That you wouldn't have been so helplessly malleable, that he would not have manipulated you as easily as he did." She dipped her voice lower still, leaning even closer, "But that is what he does. Manipulate. And after a lifetime he does it so well that I doubt anything would have prepared you. And that goes for everything royalty and court related too, in fact. As for the rest…"

"The rest?" Clary asked hoarsely, reeling from the inescapable truth of all Izzy had just posed to her.

"The rest of what you consider her culpable for. It has occurred to you, more than once I'd wager, that she is the reason the King is this way. Mayhap, had she not thrown a tantrum when she stopped getting her way all the time and run away, had she stayed with him, then he may not be so unforgiving. Or have become a man who trusts so little he needs to know how often his own daughter hems her petticoats, and you are his own blood and not under serious suspicion. Furthermore, you blame her for Jonathan. Had he not been left an angry, confused little boy who grew into adulthood wondering why his mother never loved him enough to stay, had she not left that boy with a man like Valentine who plays such emotions as easily as Simon plays the lute, then perhaps he would not be… as he is. Well, all I can say on the subject is that of that has occurred to her too."

Words did not come to Clary at all, they totally eluded her as she stared at her friend. Then, after permitting only a moment of that stunned, affirmative silence, Isabelle broke out a laugh and reverted to her old, infinitely amused self. Just not as easily or convincingly as she once used to.

"There you have it. More than merely a pretty face."

Clary forced a smile in return. "Evidently. Are you quite certain the applause of it is not enough to convince you to stay with me and talk?"

"You do not need to talk, you need to think about what I just said and decide what to do about it. At any rate, all conversations I have with you these days sooner or later turn into you whining about how awful and uncomfortable being pregnant is. And you have only been pregnant five minutes."

"Some three months," Clary corrected, feeling unjustly slighted, "Three very long months."

Isabelle smiled and reached over to pat her cheek. "I love you, but not enough to hold your sick pan. Not again."

The Duchess laughed, a little less queasily than before, "I love you too."

"Ah. Speaking of love, your husband approaches. We will speak later, properly, should you wish it. For now, I leave you in his capable hands and go saddle up. Someone has to exercise that lovely palfrey of yours." She fired her friend a teasing wink and then darted away.

Clary squirmed again, trying to get comfortable as best she could and resist the stream of unflattering, unbecoming phrases she could apply in lieu of "lovely" to that creature she had been threatening to sell to the knacker's yard for over a year now. She did not have long to dwell on it, for true to Isabelle's sentry skills her husband clattered up the steps next and sprawled himself across the cushions opposite, smiling over at her lazily. Clary might have promised devotion and submission of her body, but now she was aware that submitting her body had gotten her into this situation of tiredness, crabbiness and an uncomfortably active bladder in the first place. And now she had to survive the long hours that lay ahead of her being swayed and jolted about in this glorified box.

It all promoted her to kick at his languidly sprawling ankles now. "What do you want?"

Jace started to sigh, then seized back the sound of exasperation. He no longer rose to her grouchy jibes or complaints of him. On the sole occasion he had lost his temper and snapped back, she had broken immediately into hysterical, unstoppable tears and scared him half to death. The whole calamity had culminated with him begging her forgiveness on his knees though her wicked tongue had started it, which had only served to make Clary cry all the harder. Henceforth, he bore her sniping in relative silence. "I merely wanted to see you were comfortable, my love. We have a long journey ahead of us."

"Some of us longer than others," Clary reminded him coyly.

"I will not be far from you," Jace assured her gently.

"Hmm. You say that now, but I know that once you have your feet in the stirrups and feel the wind on your face you will gallop halfway to Garrotway before you have another thought of me."

Jace gasped theatrically, "What vile slander!"

"Harsh truths," she insisted drily.

"Well since I am so uncaring and so poorly cared for, I suppose this will be unnecessary." He drummed his fingers against the flimsy cover sheet of the book he untucked from under his arm. "I do not think my poor bruised heart can bear the sight of it being flung from the litter behind me."

Clary's hands twitched forward, "I am repentant. Utterly."

Jace flashed her a half smile and tossed the book into her lap.

"What is it?"

"Petrarch, sonnets. For my own heartless beloved."

"I am not heartless." She protested, with the beginnings of a laugh scratching at the back of her throat. "Not truly. I felt the stirrings of sympathy for Jonathan mere moments ago."

"Jonathan? Good God. Let not your compassion stray into madness Clary."

She shrugged, dipping her voice a little, "I said stirrings. Nothing dramatic. But to think no one warned him…" she gestured to her stomacher, slightly jutting outwards.

The vague merriment swiftly melted from Jace's face. He spoke with quiet but solemn intensity, "Warned him of what? Why should anyone warn him of anything? As far as he is concerned, as far as anyone is concerned, our child is the heir to a duchy and nothing more."

He pushed the hair flopping into his eyes back and shrugged, his eyes wandering from hers. He may be looking out at their courtyard, but Clary felt he was not seeing the horses, lords or grooms. His voice when it sounded again was little more than a murmur, for her ears only, "A blind man could see your brother would make a terrible king, a dangerous one even. I can agree with Valentine on that count at least." He turned back to his wife and offered a small, yet still serious half-smile, "But we needs must have a king." A trace of the unapologetic ambition he had learned from her father darted across Jace's sombre features briefly. "Why should it not be our boy?"

That fearless, insistent ambition she had tasted just yesterday that refused to allow anything to make what she wanted look unreasonable had definitely fled from her now. While Clary agreed with him that Jonathan was unfit to rule responsibly, she could not accept so easily that was sufficient cause to unmake him the rightful heir. She failed to see how Valentine could overlook the natural order of things. Even should he succeed, the King's doing so could set a precedent and soon everywhere heirs could be denied their rights on any whim. What would become of the world if the divine chain of being were overlooked? Once the established, traditional structures were abandoned the world was plunged to anarchy. No one could have any certainty. Who was to stop the child selected today from being discarded tomorrow? Clary's hands fluttered down to her stomach alongside her thoughts, fingertips skimming the gentle curve of her belly, as they did so often since she had first detected the tiny bump of her growing child.

It still astounded her, that the tiniest of protrusions in her abdomen was the result of the little life already growing so quickly inside of her. A baby, another _person!_ She was busy coming to terms with that, whatever Jace may think, and she had not cast her mind that far into the future. Not besides yesterday's flash of what she now deemed lunacy. Just another of her condition's wild fancies. She was preoccupied marvelling in the miracle of the present.

She supposed it was easier for Jace to think of the years to come. The reality of the baby had yet to strike him mayhap, facilitating his ability to play with ideas of what their child might become.

Guessing at her wandering thoughts, Jace smiled a touch sheepishly, "But your father's plots are his concerns. Not ours and certainly not yours."

"Because I am but a woman? Who need only produce the child and promptly pass it over to others?" She demanded, slyly.

Jace shook his head slowly, "In so far as you are the one carrying the child, yes. What you need to do for now is rest and keep yourself calm. Forget Idris, _I_ need you safe and healthy- both of you."

The last of her irritation slipped away. She could not do other than brighten when he said such things. She smiled at him in a manner that was sure to look pathetic to the outside eye. Jace leaned forward for a swift, chaste kiss on her lips, "I fear I have lingered long enough. The King is likely waiting for me."

"You had best go then." Clary admitted reluctantly.

With an ironically flourishing bow he dropped down from the litter and tugged on the lining curtains. "Open or shut?"

"Shut," Clary declared, "I think I will try sleep awhile." She was seldom well rested by the time the unignorably strong nausea roused her for good these mornings and it was catching up with her. Jace nodded obediently and retreated, "Fare thee well for a while at least, my beloved Laura!"

Scoffing fondly at his antics, she waved him away again. She would be sure to demand some love poems off him later, wherever they stopped for dinner, she thought to herself. Yet once the litter was in motion and the grand procession of nobles began to sluggishly chug their way out of Chatton's gates, she found herself dissatisfied again. Despite the shade of the curtains the rocking of the litter proved to be less lulling than she hoped. On the contrary, Clary was certain she felt every stone on the road as they jerked forward at no great speed whatsoever. Furthermore, once sleep established itself unmovably in opposition to her she wished she had left the curtains be so that she might have a final glimpse of her home. She was determined to establish the house as such in her mind at any rate. Rather than hopping from one great estate to another in the King's train it had been nice to live the same walls for more than a few weeks.

That was not to say it did not make her miss the graceful architecture and the gentle lapping of the river outside her window at Princewater, but she had enjoyed being mistress of her own household. She had taken to it quicker than she had expected, ordering the servants around, observing the rotations of the dairy, commissioning the meals- it had half convinced her that she had been born to be a country gentlewoman rather than a princess. She could quite happily spend the rest of her days running Chatton, with Jace out in the fields or in the counting house and she had the feeling that he would gladly never see the court again either. For the first time, they had both started to feel settled. But she doubted she would see the warm honey coloured stone of its walls for some months to come. Much as she may have liked him to be, her child would not be born under Chatton's roof.

Thankfully, slowly as they moved, they were not challenged or threatened. The mood of the shires, though by no means cheerful, was no longer openly hostile. Clary tried not to think about how that was because all the dissenters were dead. Widows and orphans did not stage revolts. Jace had started to sow the seeds of reparation in their counties, but she knew it had not been nearly as much as he had hoped for. Another reason for him to return to His Majesty's presence with great reluctance.

Eventually giving up on a nap she struggled somewhat upwards on the cushions and tried to rearrange them. God help her, if this was only the early days of pregnancy she dreaded to think what the later months would entail.

She let her thoughts stray wherever they would, welcoming the quiet and privacy to let them roam in peace. One benefit of this transport was that she could screen herself away from the omnipotence of her father and his spies and live without fretting that her thoughts could be easily plucked off her open face like berries off a hedge.

Soon she could not tell if it had been hours or minutes of their journey had passed. Her restless eyes roamed her interior surroundings, taking in the beech and heron insignias patterning the roof. The tree had been Stephen's badge, she remembered, attempting to stretch her cramping legs. The litter itself had been hastily dug out from some dark, forgotten corner of Chatton. Clary tilted her head and properly contemplated Stephen's personal insignia. It did not suit Jace- not at all. She remembered having read somewhere that it was supposed to symbolise resilience and grace. While her husband possessed plenty of both, the tree seemed inadequate for him. Trees were too easily overlooked, too inanimate. Everything about Jace Herondale demanded attention.

He was a true leader of men, noble by character as well as name in a world of wretches devoid of honour, out only for their own gain. All of whom would gladly see him fall, or be the instrument of his destruction. She shuttered her eyes and tried to imagine how he must have looked that day, when he had charged out barely armoured into a force of rebels hundreds strong and commanded their loyalty. He must have displayed a truly regal courage, become defiance and hope made flesh. In that case, he appeared only as he was: a man who had fought every day he breathed for his freedom and would never stop fighting. Someone the rest should never forget to fear. He had been tested over and over and each time he prevailed. What she wanted most of all now was to to give him a reminder him of that. Her love had always struggled to see himself as anyone of worth, so she ought to show him how he could look through the eyes of others. To remind him how difficult he was to cow.

Jace might wish to play cordially for the time being and make friends where he could, Clary meanwhile failed to see how they could overlook their enemies. The Cardinal, Jonathan, Pangborn, these were just a few of those more forward with their antagonism and had only been temporarily abated, uncertain of how much influence this new player really had, or how much he wanted. Thus the Duchess deduced that a show of strength was needed.

Captivated by her own vision, Clary instantly felt the longing to put charcoal to paper and sketch more desperately than she had for months. She let the glowing vivacity of the image take form in her mind's eye, scarce believing the clarity with which the vision had come upon her, or the force with which it kept her in its grip. Claws even. Feeling the corners of her mouth curl, she marvelled at the subtle, uncompromising power and might in the untamed, majestic beast that prowled behind her closed lids.

If Jace really meant his refusal to allow another to pull the strings of his destiny again, then he needed a banner that was all his. One fit for a prince. She could give him that much. Together they would configure a way to keep the rest of the jackals at court in check.

Mayhap they could retain the traditional Herondale blue. But the age of the weak sapling was over. Now Broceland would have a lion.

 _-000000000000000-_

* * *

 ** _A/N: The ending was weak, I know, but there comes a time to accept you suck and let it go._**

 ** _I also can't be the only one who wants to wrap Magnus in a blanket, feed him cookies and warm milk and shield him forevermore from the world he's too good for. :'(_**

 ** _Thank you so much for reading! This time when I promise the next chapter will arrive in the near future I (hopefully) voice a promise that I can keep this time! Meaning I have the guts of it. on paper. And oh boy is shit about to hit the fan my dudes. With that happy pronouncement I leave you for now! xx_**


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